THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

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FROM    AN    ORIGINAL    PAINTINO    BY    THB    LATB    JNO     B.     BLAIR.     NOW    IN    POSSESSION   OF    E      MARSH 

"Hurled  as  many  deadly  arrows  deep 
beneath  the  monsters'  winjis." 

—[Page  7-j 


POEMS  OF  THE  PIASA 


BY 

FRANK     C.    RIEHL 


ALTON,    ILL. 

MELLING   &  GASKINS,    PUBLISHERS 
1896 


COPYRIGHT    1896, 

BY 
FRANK    C.    RIEHL. 


M  FILLING  &  OASKINS. 

PRINTERS  AND  BINDBRS 


-PS 


llnto  ma  mother  anb  mu,  totfe, 

£urin  fyearts  of  tDomankinb, 
3n  tt^at  ttjeg  t)aoe  bclteoeb  in  me, 

Qnb  nencr  fatleb  to  finb 
Some  points  of  merit  in  mg  roork: 

IDttl}  fercencij  tmbtbeb 
3n  mutual  gratitube  anb  looe, 

(Ellis  pohime  is  tnscribeb. 


762885 


PREFACE. 


this  little  venture  into  the  field  of  modern 
literature,  appealing  to  the  generosity  of  the 
public  in  general,  and  of  his  friends  in  particular, 
the  author  has  only  to  say  that  it  is  issued 
under  the  advice  and  at  the  earnest  solicitation 
of  a  few  persons  who  believed  that  the  poems 
contained  therein  are  of  sufficient  merit  to  deserve 
to  live,  and  to  have  a  wider  circulation  than  that 
afforded  by  a  single  publication  in  the  local 
papers  or  current  magazines. 

Of  his  own  thought  toward  the  work,  he 
cannot  give  better  expression  than  by  quoting  the 
following  crude  lines,  which  he  wrote  when  a  boy 
of  20  years: 

O,  could  I  but  command  the  words 

With  which  to  give  my  feelings  wing, 

I'd  sing  as  blithely  as  the  birds 
Of  every  fair  and  noble  thing ; 

Of  all  that  glads  the  human  soul, 

And  makes  life   better,   I  would  sing. 


I'd  sing  of  friendship,  fair  and  bright, 
Of  wayward  souls  by  love  redeemed  ; 

Of  countless  themes  whereon  the  light 
Of  poets'  lamp  hath  never  beamed, — 

If  only  I  could  write  the  songs 

Which,   musing,   I  have  often  dreamed. 

But    no,  I  never  can  command 

The  words  to  set  my  feelings  free; 

Stern  Fate,  with  her  resistless  hand, 
Is  constantly  restraining  me, 

And  I  can  never  be  the  half 

Of  what  I  fain  would  wish  to  be. 

Yet  is  there  many  a  tender  strain 

That  ne'er  escaped  the  warbler's  tongue; 

There's  many  a  harp  of  finest  grain 
That  ever  must  remain  unstrung, 

And  many  a  vision  haunts  the  brain 
Of  poets,   that  shall  ne'er  be  sung. 

A  boundless  gulf  must  aye  remain 

Between  the  longed-for  and  the  real ; 

Earth's  feathered  songsters  strive  in  vain 
To  warble  forth  the  joy  they  feel; 

And  every  song  the   poet  sings 
Is  but  the  shade  of  his  ideal. 

And  I  will  bid  my  muse  sing  on, 

Although   'tis  but  a  simple  strain  ; 

Content   if,    when   my  life   is  done, 

And  I  have  left  this  world  of  pain, 

Some  fond  soul,   pausiiig  at  my  grave, 

Shall  say:   "He  has  not  lived  in  vain." 


The  poems  of  Indian  legend  are  given 
prominent  place  because  they  are  deemed  to  be 
somewhat  novel  in  themselves,  and  to  possess  a 
peculiar  local  interest  in  the  vicinity  of  the  birth 
place  of  the  writer. 

The  other  selections  are  made  from  many 
hundreds  of  poems,  all  of  which,  presented  at  one 
reading,  might  prove  an  overplus  that  would  pall 
upon  the  taste  of  the  kindly  disposed  and  aesthetic 
patron. 

Cordially  yours, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


INDIAN    LAYS   AND    LEGENDS. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  PIASA i 

SONG  OF  THE  SETTING  SUN 9 

THE  LEGEND  OF  LOVER'S   LEAP 13 

OUATOGA 20 

THE  WARRIOR'S  LAMENT ." 21 

THE  CROSSING  OF  THE  Sioux 26 

ILLIOLA'S  PENANCE 31 

ON  A  PICTURE  OF   SITTING  BULL 37 

RlCHARDVILLE 38 

A  DUEL  ON  THE  PLAINS 47 

PAWNADAWA'S  VENGEANCE 50 

PASSING  OF  THE  MONARCH 63 

'•PILOT'S    GUIDE" 65 

VERSES   ON    VARIOUS   THEMES. 

THE  FOIL  OF  FATE 73 

THE  HOUSE  WHERE  I  WAS   BORN 77 

PEARLS  OF   POESY , 79 

'MiD  SCENES  OF   YOUTH 80 

A  LESSON  FOR   LENT 82 

CHRISTIAN  WOMANHOOD  83 

Bv  THE   RIVER  85 


THE  SILVER  WEDDING 88 

THE  Two  ANGLERS 91 

MAMMA'S  VALENTINES ,. 93 

THE  NOBLER  CREED 94 

OUT  OF  THE  PAST 96 

CONVALESCENCE 97 

BLIGHTED 99 

THE  COMING  OF  THE   BRIDE 101 

THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  ON  THE   HILL 104 

GLAD  EASTER  TIME 107 

A  CAMPSIDE  REVERIE 109 

THE   FISH  WE  FAILED  TO  LAND in 

THE  HUNTSMAN 113 

NOT  IN  THE  PAST 115 

MONOTONE 116 

THE  IMAGE  BREAKER 117 

To  A  TREE  FROG 118 

THE  LESSON  OF   COLUMBUS 119 

BALLAD   OF  THE   BRAVE 121 

ONCE  MORE  WITH  REJOICING 123 

LIFE'S   RURAL   WAV 125 

LIKE  AS  A  STAR 127 

WHAT  MIGHT  NOT  BE 129 

HEROES   UNREVEALED 130 

IN  THE  OLD  PRISON  CEMETERY 131 

A  WORD 133 

THE  SUBMERGED  CITY 134 

A  THRENODY  OF   TEARS 135 

A  SONG  OF    LABOR  DAY 137 

DEFERRED 139 

SING  WE  OF   LOVE 141 

THE  SILENT  SENTINEL 143 


THE  Music  OF  THE  WHEEL 144 

HYPOCRISY 145 

THE  BATTLE  OF   BRAINS 146 

IN  AFTER   YEARS 148 

WHEN  THE  HOUSEWIFE  is  AWAY 150 

A  WINTER'S  STORM 151 

IF  Wu  WERE  YOUNG  AGAIN 152 

THE  ROSE 154 

SEPTEMBER  SYMPHONIES 156 

THE  FAIREST  SCENE 157 

PILGRIM'S  PRAYER 158 

IN  LATE  OCTOBER 160 

A    PICTURE 162 

A  PLAINT  OF  THE  ANCIENT   GREEK —  163 

THE  POET  AND  His  SONG 165 

APPENDIX.  . .  .  168 


Indian  Lays  and  Legends 


SONG    OF    THE    SETTING    SUN. 

AA7HILE  the  sunset  glories  linger 
VV        Or^the  cloud-hills  of  the  West, 
The  anmelia's  tell-tale  finger 

Pointing  out  each  rugged  crest, 
Let  us  rest  here  by  the  river, 

Where  the  twilight  shadows  creep,— 
As  of  old,  with  bow  and  quiver, 

Stole  the  warrior  up  the  steep. 

Now  the  day's  reflected  glories 

Their  soft  colorings   impart: 
As  the  wit  of  well -told  stories 

Leaves  their  impress  on  the  heart. 
Truly  'tis  a  charmed  surrounding, 

And  the  very  stones  we  cast, 
On  the  rugged  bluffs  rebounding, 

Echo  the  forgotten  past, — 


Till  fond  fancy,  backward  fleeting, 

Paints  a  picture  of  the  time 
When  each  sun  these  regions  greeting 

Marked  the  Indian  in  his  prime: 
When,  his  title  undisputed, 

He  was  lord  of  all  he  saw, 
And  his  valor,  widely  bruited, 

Held  all  rival  tribes  in  awe: 

When  his  pointed  arrow  speeding 
Faster  than  the  winds  are  fleet, 

Brought  the  luckless  quarry  bleeding 
Down  within  its  dark  retreat: 

While  the  women,  ne'er  contending, 

Worked  until  each  task  was  done, 
.     ,   ,,     «th. tdr.e /i 
And  the  urchins,  war  pretending, 

Aimed  their  rnfssiles  at  the  sun. 

'Tis  a  vivid  presentation, 

Beautiful  to  look  upon, 
But  it  passes,  like  the  nation, 

Into  dreamland,  and  is  gone;— 
Even  as  the  scenes  it  cherished, 

Even  as  the  day  was  fair, 
So  the  memory  has  perished, 

And  the  damp  of  d/eath  is  there. 


Now  the  fields  of  maize  are  growing 

Where  the  Indian  lies  at  rest, 
And  the  farmer's  furrows,  flowing, 

Shift  the  soil  above  his  breast. 
Nor  shall  warrior  e'er  reviewing 

Here  behold  the  grave's  disgrace, 
For  the  stern  plowshare  of  Ruin 

Hath  run  havoc  through  the  race. 

Since  they  crossed  yon  peaceful  water 
Toward  the  far  Pacific  shore, 

They  have   shared  the  bison's  slaughter, 
And  pursue  the  herds  no  more: 

Save  the  few,  who,  still  remaining, 

By  a  thankless  land  ignored, 
T-L  •     i*"? VIA ****'>*' ,  Stf"-""1? 
Their  captivity  disdaining, 

Choose  to  perish  by  the  sword. 

So  this  tragedy  of  nations, 
Like  the  passing  of  a  day, 

Saddest  of  the  world's  narrations, 

•f  >-*i 
Marks  an  epoch  passed  away; 

And  the  pen  that  writes  the  story 
Will  have  much  of  good  to  tell 

In  the  book,  of  Indian  glory, 

Ere  the  last  great  chieftain  fell. 


True,  they  fought  like  demons,  fired 

With  a  zeal  that  stands  alone, 
Yet  their  fury  was  inspired, 

For  they  did  but  'fend  their  own. 
Sparing  all  equivocation, 

We  usurped  the  red -man's  crown 
When  he  spurned  civilization, 

By  whose *scepfre lie  went  down. 

Aye,  the  sun  of  life  is  setting 

O'er  the  Indian's  vale  of  rest, 
And  the  mad  world,  soon  forgetting, 

Surges  onward  toward  the  West: 
While  he  waits,  with  many  another, 

When  the  final  trumpet  sounds, 
To  receive  his  paleface  brother 

On  the  Happy  Hunting  Grounds. 


THE    LEGEND    OF    LOVER'S    LEAP.* 

CLOW    the    summer    day    lies    dying,    in    the 

shadowy  arms  of  night, 
And  the  wind,  its  requiem  sighing,  sweeps  around 

the  headlands  white. 
Hear   it;   like  a    soul  in   anguish,  that,  distracted, 

comes  to  weep, 
Fretting    its    fantastic    pinions    on    the    rocks    of 

Lover's  Leap: 
Here,  while   pale  the   moonbeams   glisten,  let   us 

sit  and  muse  awhile, 
And  the  prospect  will    repay  us   for  the    moments 

we  beguile. 

Soft  the  landscape  is,  and  dreamy,  and  the  stars 

shine  overhead: 
Far   below   the   rippling  waters   glide   along  their 

sandy  bed; 
Over  stream  and  hill  and  valley  Nature  holds  her 

court  supreme, 
And    I    catch    the    tender   cadence   of    a   golden, 

olden  dream. 


*NOTE  II. — Appendix.  13 


Sitting    here    beneath   the   shelter   of   the   over 
hanging  rock, 

Comes  a  Presence  stealing  o'er  me,  and  it  seems 
inclined  to  talk — 

To    unfold    the    hidden    legend   of   this   point   of 
Indian  fame, 

All   the   strange,  unwritten   story  how  it   came  to 
bear  its  name. 

Long   ago,  so   runs  the    record,   ere  the   paleface 

saw  the  land, 
And   the    red    man    in    his   glory  trod  the   river's 

shining  sand, 
Came  a   maiden   here  to  worship   every   evening, 

when  the  sun 
Dipped    behind    the    Western   woodland,    and   the 

daily  chase  was  done — 
Came  to  thank   the   Blessed   Spirit  for  the   many 

mercies  sent, 
And  to   ask  for  all   her  people   grace  and   plenty, 

and  content. 

Fair  she  was,  this  dusky  damsel,  daughter  of  the 

tribal  chief, 
And  she  bore  a  charmed  existence  in  the  popular 

belief: 


Many  of  the  brave  young  warriors  had  contended 

for  her  hand, 
And   though   all   had  failed  to  win   her,  all   were 

slaves  to  her  command. 


But   it  chanced   one  fatal   evening,  gazing   hence 

across  the  stream, 
She    beheld    a  youthful    boatman    in   the    early 

twilight  gleam, 
And    she  hailed    the    comely    stranger,    till    he 

turned  in  at  the  shore: 
He  was  of   another   people,  whom   she    ne'er  had 

known  before. 
Each  found  pleasure  in  the  other,  and  the  chance 

acquaintance  grew 
Till   they  vowed  to  bide  together,  and  exchanged 

love's  pledges  true. 
But,  alas!   one  eve    they  lingered,  gazing   on   the 

peaceful  tide, 
As  the   youth   told   his   devotion,  kneeling  fondly 

by  her  side, 
When  their  tryst  was   rudely   broken,  through  a 

jealous  rival's  eyes 
Who    beheld    an    interloper    winning   thus    his 

cherished  prize, 


And    at  once    did    spread  the   story  that   a   hated 

enemy 
Was  enticing  their  fair   princess  from   her   native 

tribe  to  flee. 


Then    the    chieftain,    flushed   with    anger,    siezed 

his  trusty  bow  and  dart, 
And    forbade    his    warriors    weapons — he    would 

pierce  the  villain's  heart: 
Stealthily  he   stole  upon  them,  all   unconscious  of 

their  doom, 
Till    his   shout  of   warning  echoed   like   a  death - 

knell  through  the  gloom ; 
Instantly  the   maiden,    pleading,  sprang  to   shield 

her  lover's  form ; 

Woe!  the  deadly  arrow  speeding,  sought  her  life- 
blood,  fresh  and  warm: 
Then    the    grim    old    warrior    staggered, — he,    a 

master  in  his  art, 
Who    had    never    missed    a   target,    shot    his 

daughter  through  the  heart; 
And  the   youth,  when  comprehending,  caught  the 

fair  form  in  his  arms 
While  the   angry  horde,    advancing,    pressed   him 

close  with  wild  alarms; 


16 


When    he    sprang    upon    yon    boulder,    stood    a 

moment  calmly  there, 
Cast   at  them    a  cold   defiance — then   leaped   out 

upon  the  air. 

Afterwards   they  found   them,  mangled,    lying  on 

the  rocks  below, 
And    the    hills    re-echoed,    sadly,    the    remorseful 

cries  of  woe. 
Tenderly  the  twain  were  buried,  on  the    summit, 

side  by  side, 
While    the    Indian    priest,    foreknowing,    at   the 

service  prophesied 
That   the    place    should    e'er    be    sacred    to   the 

spirit  it  had  served, 
As   the   home   of   many  people  who   these  favors 

well  deserved — 
That   the    Manitou's  best    blessings,  ever   coming 

from  above, 
Here    would    hold    his    chosen    children    in   the 

happy  bonds  of  love. 

* 
#          * 

Little  dreamed  the   savage   savant  how  his  words 

would  be  fulfilled, 
That    another,  conquering    nation   on   this   sacred 

spot  would  build, 


When    his    own    had    crossed    the    river,    driven, 

never  to  return, 
To   the   distant,    arid    regions    where    the    sunset 

glories  burn: — 
Little  recked  he  of  the  changes,  coming  down  the 

vales  of  Time, 
That   should    blight   his    native  woodlands   in  the 

grandeur  of  their  prime, 
When   a  wilderness   of   wigwams,  mountain   high 

beside  his  own, 
Should    obliterate    his    footprints    from    the    land 

which  he  had  known. 
But   he    spoke   with   truth    inspired:    Though   the 

Indian's  sun  hath  set, 
And   his    memory,    most    forgotten,    only   lingers 

with  us  yet 
In    a    score    of    doubtful    legends,    such    as    that 

rehearsed  above} 
Illustrative    of    his    nature,    passionate    with    hate 

and  love: — 
Other   hearts  here  oft  have  spoken  loves  as  true 

as  theirs  of  old, 
And  exchanged  some  tender   token  as  the   fateful 

tale  was  told: 


18 


And    we    hold    the    place    in    rev'rence,    as    each 

passing  season  brings 
Joys   that   bide   in    every  household,  like   a   dove 

with  folded  wings, 
While  the  voice  of  new  endeavor,  ever  just  before 

us,  leads 
On   to   braver,  worthier  efforts,    loftier   aims    and 

better  deeds. 
Yes,    methinks    I    have    been   dreaming,    and   we, 

too,  must  go  to  rest, 
For  the    morrow  brings    new  duties   and    another, 

nobler  quest: 
Peace  enwraps  the  slumbering  city,  but  the  winds 

their  vigils  keep 
Crooning  their  prophetic  murmurs  round  the  point 

of  Lover's  Leap. 


OUATOGA.* 

DRAVE  Chieftain  of  that  honored  tribe 

Of  Red  Men,  who  presided  o'er 
These  fertile  regions  of  the  West, 

By  mighty  Mississippi's  shore: 
We  owe  thee  much  of  gratitude 

Who  gavest  the  name  of  lllini 
A  deathless  honor,  facing  death 

As  one  who  does  not  fear  to  die 
When  duty  calls.     'Twas  thine  to  make 

The  noblest  conquest  life  may  know, 
Of  sacrifice  for  others  sake, 

When  evil  shadows  hover  low. 
A  savage  king  of  savage  land, 

'Twas  by  creation's  highest  law 
That  thou  wast  nerved  to  raise  thy  hand 

Against  the  monster,  Piasa. 
Thou  and  thy  warriors  little  kenned 

That,  in  the  course  of  years  to  be, 
Another  nation  would  commend 

The  deed  that  set  thy  people  free. 
Thine  was  the  impulse;  ours  the  meed 

Of  profit,  in  the  fruit  it  gave, 
Through  that  fair  flower  of  val'rous  deed 

That  blossoms  o'er  thy  nameless  grave. 


*NOTE  III.— Appendix. 


THE     WARRIOR'S     LAMENT. 

«r.  dfv*^ 

CROWNING  stood  the  grizzled  chieftain  on  the 

desecrated  mound, 
Gazing  like  a  wounded   eagle  on  the  fertile  fields 

around ; 
Stern  and  sad,  his  brows  were  furrowed  with  the 

seams  of  many  woes, 
And  his  waving  locks  were  whitened    by  the  fall 

of  countless  snows. 
Silently  he    gazed  about  him,  over   all   the  varied 

scene — 
Saw   the    waving   fields    and    orchards    and   the 

roads  that  wound  between: 
Marked  the  sites   of  happy  homesteads,   studding 

all  the  rolling  plain, 
And    across    his   clouded   visage    came    a   look   of 

stifled  pain. 


"O,    Great    Spirit   of    my  fathers,"  thus    at    last 

his  thought  found  breath, 
"Who    for    many    years   have   slumbered    in   this 

mound  the  sleep  of  death, 
Why,  when   you    laid   down   the   hatchet   on   the 

battlefield  of  life, 
Did   you   leave  your  luckless   children  to  keep  up 

the  bitter  strife? 
Ah,    my  mother,  you  who   bore   me,    when  those 

bones  were  laid  to  rest, 
Why    was    I    not    buried    with    you,    locked    in 

slumber  on  your  breast? 
Better   to    have    died    in    childhood,    better    have 

remained  unborn, 
Then  have  lived  to  see   my  people  made   to  bear 

the  white  man's  scorn! 
O,  great   Father,  mighty  river,  when  we   crossed 

yon  silver  tide 
Little  thought  we  of  the  sorrows  which  that  fatal 

step  implied! 
Banished  from  our  native  forests,  driven  from  our 

fathers'  graves, 
We   were   promised    peace   and   plenty  'yond   the 

Mississippi's  waves; 


22 


Thus    we    went    away,    in    sadness,    left    our 

heritage  behind, 
On    the   far-off   Western    prairies    other    hunting 

grounds  to  find. 
Did    the    pale-face    keep    his    promise?    No,    for 

scarcely  had  we  gone 
When  his  armies,  coming  after,  forced  my  people 

to  move  on! 
Onward    still   the  white  man's   powder   drives  us 

toward  the  setting  sun, 
And  will  never  cease  to  urge  us  till  the  fatal  race 

is  run: 
Westward  yet  across  the  mountains  is  the  Indian 

forced  to  flee 
And    ere    long    his    race    must    perish,    'whelmed 

beneath  the  rolling  sea. 
Blame    us    not,    Eternal    Spirit,    that   we    should 

resist  so  long — 

it,  (fti  >n 

That   we    rise    anon    in    protest    to    resent   this 
mighty  wrong. 

"Once    again    the    gray-haired    warrior    stands 

beside  the  tribal  grave, 
'Mid  the  maze  of  desolation,  by  his  native  river's 

wave: 


Could    an    Indian's   curses    blight   them,    in   their 

arrogance  and  pride, 
I  would   lay  these  fields  in  ruin,  scatter  all   their 

homesteads  wide! 

(j  *"M  «'''>!   t— 

Not  the  gauntlet  of  the  death -dance  and  the  torture 

at  the  stake, 
Not  the  Indian's  darkest  vengeance  could  enough 

atonement  make 
For   the   wrongs   which    he    has    suffered    at   the 

spoiler's  ruthless  hand, 
Who  now  rules  in  proud  dominion  in  my  people's 

native  land. 
But    'tis  vain,  my  race    is  fallen,  and   can    never 

rise  again 
Till    the     Manitou     shall     call    us    to    the    happy 

regions.    Then, 
When  the  Indian  and  the   pale -face  stand    before 

him  in  the  throng, 
He  will  hold  his  mighty  council  and  decide  which 

one  was  wrong. 
Farewell,    Spirit   of   my  Fathers,  for   the   time    is 

growing  late, 
1  must   go  to  join    my  people,  and  to  share  their 

final  fate." 


Yet  he    stood  awhile  in  silence,  as  if   fettered  by 

a  spell, 
Stooping  then  to  earth  he  kissed  it:  thus  he  took 

his  last  farewell. 
Then    he   wrapped    his   cloak    about   him    and    in 

silence  strode  away, — 
Off,  toward  the   sunset  regions,  passing  with  the 

dying  day. 


THE    CROSSING    OF    THE    SIOUX.* 


DORTAGE  des  Sioux,  historic  place, 

Nestled  beside  the  peaceful  shore, 
An  unpretentious  village  now, 

But  rich  in  legendary  lore, — 
Where  plods  the  busy  throng  to-day, 

And  from  yon  lofty  steeple  side 
The  chimes  that  call  to  evening  prayer 

Float  o'er  the  restful  river's  tide- 
Where  sings  the  farmer  as  he  guides 

His  plowshare  through  the  mellow  soil, 
And  bounteous  harvests  every  year 

Reward  him  well  for  honest  toil. 


Time  was  when  all  was  wild  and  drear 
Within  the  dark,  primeval  wood, 

Save  here  and  there,  where  on  the  ridge 
A  straggling  group  of  wigwams  stood. 


*NOTE  IV.— Appendii.  26 


Here  reigned  the  red  man  all  supreme, 

Plied  undisturbed  the  huntsman's  art, 
Nor  owned  a  foe  more  brave  than  he 

Who  dared  to  cross  his  deadly  dart. 
The  battle  cry,  the  fleeting  chase, 

Roused  all  his  passions,  all  his  joy; 
And  many  a  haughty  challenge  met 

The  neighboring  tribes  of  Illinois. 

And  once,  so  runs  the  legend  old, 

There  came  a  panic  to  the  land: 
A  foe  so  terrible  to  meet, 

The  bravest  did  not  dare  withstand. 
Small  tribal  feuds  were  soon  forgot 

In  the  dread  fate  which  threatened  all, 
The  strongest  turned  his  back  and  fled 

Before  the  awful  monster's  call. 
Then  came,  howe'er,  a  day  of  joy 

When  every  warrior,  child  and  squaw, 
In  savage  exultation  danced 

About  the  slaughtered   Piasa. 

Where  towers  yon  holy  temple  now, 

Marquette — the  earliest  white  man — trod, 

And  standing  'midst  the  pagan  throng 

First  taught  them  of  the  Christian's  God. 


'Twas  later  yet  by  many  moons 

When  that  historic  struggle  came 
Which  brought  about  the  strategy 

Wherefrom  the  village  has  its  name. 
Two  nations  ruled  these  lowland  plains, 

The  wily  Sioux  and  fiery  Crow 
And  ne'er  two  feudal  warriors  met 

But  flint  was  sped  from  bended  bow. 

Thus  once  a  scouting  band  of  Sioux 

Ventured  too  far  on  foreign  soil, 
Nor  ever  thought  of  danger  till 

Encircled  by  the  foeman's  toil. 
But  with  a  quick,  decisive  move 

The  Sioux  broke  through  the  attacking  rank, 
Seizing  a  score  of  staunch  canoes 

Moored  close  beside  the   sandy  bank; 
Then  down  the  dark  Missouri's  flood 

A  race  of  life  and  death  began, 
Two  scores  of  fugitives  pursued 

By  hosts — a  score  to  every  man. 

Wild  is  the  flight;  with  deafening  yells 

The  Crows  come  surging  down  the  stream; 

Like  lances  glinting  in  the  sun 

Their  paddles  o'er  the  waters  gleam: 

28 


And  six  good  throws  below,  the  Sioux 

With  features  set  in  sullen  pride, 
Bend  every  muscle  to  the  strokes, 

As  through  the  rushing  waves  they  glide. 
With  courage  fostered  of  despair 

They  forge  ahead  and  surely  gain ; 
But  still  the  murderous  host   comes  on 

While  flint-capped  arrows  fall  like  rain. 

For  hours  the  maddening  contest  lasts, 

The  strongest  failing,  faint  and  sore, 
When  suddenly,  around  a  bend, 

They  vanish  and  are  seen  no   more. 
Just  where,  almost,  the  rivers  meet, 

When,  veering  sharply  in  its  flow, 
The  mad  Missouri  turns  to  join 

The  Mississippi  miles  below, 
With  practiced  eye  the  Sioux  perceived 

A  chance  to  'scape  the  victim's  doom: 
Landed,  and  carrying  their  canoes, 

Quick  vanished  in  the  forest  gloom. 

Brief  was  the  march,  and  soon  they  found 
Them  by  their  native  river's  waves, 

Re-launched,  and  paddled  safely  back 
To  join  their  squaws  and  fellow  braves. 


The  Crows,  not  'ware  that  aught  was  wrong, 
Kept  madly  on  their  fruitless  course, 

And  were  in  turn  pursued,  engaged, 
And  routed  by  superior  force. 


Thus  did  the  village  find  its  name; 

The  race  that  since  hath  settled  here, 
Descendants  of  De  Soto's  men — 

Still  hold  the  legend  fondly  dear. 
Ask  any  burgher  you  may  meet; 

He  will  avow  the  story  true, 
And  point  that  narrow  neck  of  land 

That  marks  the  crossing  of  the  Sioux. 


ILLIOLA'S    PENANCE.* 

\X/ALKING  down  the  peaceful  valley,  'neath 
the  silvery  summer  moon, 

To  the  spring  whose  crystal  waters  gurgle  forth, 
a  precious  boon, 

From  the  hills  whose  rock-ribbed  contour  cir 
cumscribes  the  starry  sky, 

Comes  to  me  a  dreamful  story,  whence  1  know 
not,  neither  why,— 

Comes  as  from  the  sparkling  fountain,  through 
the  music  of  its  flow, 

In  an  idyl  of  devotion  from  the  days  of  long  ago. 

Dwelt  there   once  an    Indian    Princess   yonder  by 

the  river  side, 
Graced  with  Nature's   richest  favors,  and    a  boon 

of  tender  pride 
In  the  wigwam  of  her  people,  who   esteemed  her 

half  divine, 
As   the   Manitou   had    sent   her   to    achieve    some 

great  design. 


*NoTE  V.— Appendix.  31 


Frail  of  form,    yet  fair   and    graceful  as   the   fern 

leaves  at  her  feet; 
True   and   tender   and   devoted,    and    of   bearing 

rarely  sweet; 
Guileless    as   the    dappled    deerling,    brought    her 

when  the  hunt  was  done: 
Winsome   as   the  woodland    roses   smiling   at   the 

morning  sun: — 
Was  the  Princess  Illiola,  daughter  of  the  reigning 

chief, 
On  the  eve  of   her   great   sorrow,  in   the  gloomy 

vale  of  grief. 

Never  womanhood  so  perfect  lived  of  manhood 
unadmired, 

And  the  hope  to  gain  her  favor  many  daring 
deeds  inspired 

In  the  warriors  of  her  people,  who  were  never 
loth  to  go 

To  the  chase,  or  e'en  to  battle,  with  an  un 
relenting  foe. 

Of  the  many,  two  were  favored  by  her  fond 
approving  eye; 

Both  were  counted  brave  and  manly,  and  no  arm 
with  theirs  could  vie; 


Each    adored    the   peerless    maiden,    and    their 

trophies,  one  by  one, 
Graced   the   entrance   to   her  wigwam   when   the 

daily  hunt  was  done: 
Brothers  were  they  in  relation,  twin  of  birth  and 

one  of  mind, 
But  she  vowed  the  love  to    neither  that  to  either 

was  inclined. 

Came  a  day  of  autumn  glory,  when  the  Princess 

walked  alone, 
Aimlessly  about  the  valley,  wrapped    in    musings 

all  her  own; 
Thinking  of   the  ardent   lovers — maybe    searching 

in  her  heart 
Whom    to    give   the  wifely  favor,    whom   to    send 

the  cruel  dart, 
For  she  felt  in  sense  of  duty  that  the  time  to  act 

was  near, 
And — the  sound  of  angry  voices   broke   upon   her 

startled  ear: 
'Twas  the  brothers  hot  in   parley;  and  she  stole 

with  noiseless  tread 
Till  she   heard,  in  trembling   terror,  all  the  bitter 

things  they  said, 


33 


Standing  there  in   grim   defiance.     It  was  Illiola's 

name 
That   had   drowned   all   thought   of  kinship   in   a 

flood  of  savage  flame. 
They  had    slain    an    antlered   monarch;    each  had 

hunted  unaware 
Of  the  other's  like  endeavor,  each  had  aimed  his 

missile  fair, 
And  •  each   claimed   the    noble   quarry,  vowed  the 

conquest  all  his  own 
For   a   gift  to    Illiola.     Woe!    Upon    that    bed    of 

stone 
Fell  two  forms  athwart  the  carcass,  and  an  arrow 

in  each  breast 
Told    the    'wildered,    weeping    maiden    what    her 

heart  had  never  guessed. 

When   they  found    her   on   the    morrow,  reason's 

light  had  left  her  eyes, 
And  the  soul  of  Illiola  moaned  its  requiem  to  the 

skies. 
All  the   sages  of  the    nation  came  to  minister,  in 

vain, 
To   the    Chieftain's    beauteous    daughter;    none 

could  ease  the  fatal  pain; 


34 


Like    a    broken   flower  she   faded,  pining    by  the 

valley-side 
Where  the  tragedy  transpired,  and,  with  the  new 

moon,  she  died. 

But   that    night   there  came  a    Presence,  and   her 

people  heard  a  voice, 
Softer  than  the  sound  of  waters,  and  it  counseled 

thus:     "Rejoice! 

Do  not  weep  for  llliola,  for  the  Manitou  hath  said 
That   her  spirit,  here   abiding,    shall    redeem   the 

life-blood  shed, 
In    a    consecrated    fountain;    washing   out   the 

crimson  stain 
Of   the    lover's    last    encounter,    to    the    nation's 

lasting  gain. 
Here  shall  sorrows  be  requited,  while  the  ill   find 

health  anew, 
And    all    jealous    passions    mingle    in    a    better, 

broader  view, 
When  the   people  meet  to   counsel,  in  the  dawn 

of  brighter  day, 
As  yon  stains  by  these  bright  waters  are  suffused 

and  washed  away." 


35 


Looking,  they  beheld   the  wonder  of  the   boulder 

rent  apart, 
And    from    out   the    fissured    crevice    saw   the 

sparkling  water  start; 
Stooped   the    Chief,  and    quaffing   deeply,  spoke: 

"The  Manitou  be  praised; 
Be   this   valley  consecrated  to    His   service,"  and 

he  raised 
In    his    hands    a   shining   pebble,    and    concluded, 

calm  and  clear: 
"So  may  llliola's    penance  brighten  all  who  tarry 

here." 

*    *    * 

Hath    it    seemed    a    Pagan    story?    Here  we   are 

beside  the  spring; 
Drink  we  to  the   spirit  maiden,  while  the  service 

vespers  ring, 
And    the    words    of    counsel    falling   from    the 

platform  seneschal, 
Seem  to  echo  llliola's  benediction  over  all. 


ON    A    PICTURE    OF    SITTING    BULL. 

/^RIM  warrior,  as  we  gaze  upon 

^^         The  painted  likeness  of  thy  face, 

How  sadly  we  recall  with  thee 

The  story  of  thy  ill-starred  race. 
Resistless  will  and  manly  power 

Are  on  those  features  interlined, 
And  stamped  upon  that  lofty  brow 

The  impress  of  a  haughty  mind. 

The  last  and  greatest  of  the  line 

Of  fighting  chiefs, — majestic,  brave; 

We  honor  thee  despite  thy  deeds; 
And  oft  beside  that  lonely  grave 

The  patriot  in  awe  will  pause, 

Remembering  thee  and  thy  lost  cause. 


37 


RICHARDVILLE.* 


DESIDE  St.  Mary's  silver  stream, 

Whose  laughing  waters,  all  agleam, 
Flow  past  the  city  of  Fort  Wayne, 
Through  Indiana's  fertile  plain, 
There  stands  within  a  churchyard  gray — 
Long  since  surrendered  to  decay — 
A  weather-beaten  shaft  of  stone, 
With  moss  and  lichens  overgrown, 
Upon  whose  surface  may  be  traced 
These  words,  by  time  almost  effaced: 


"Here  rest  the  bones  of  Richardville, 

Great  chief  of  the  Miami  tribe. 
An  Indian  statesman  of  great  skill, 
Who  never  gave  nor  took  a  bribe." 

The  story  of  the  warrior's  name, 
Although,  perchance,  unknown  to  fame, 
Is  still  remembered  and  revered 
Upon  the  plains  where  he  was  reared, 


•NOTE  VI.— Appendix.  38 


And  honored  as  among  the  few 

Red  men  who  upright  were,  and  true. 

Though  now  his  race  has  passed  away, 

And  scarcely  in  this  latter  day 

Do  we  take  trouble  to  recall 

The  hated  people  from  whose  fall 

We  date  our  own  prosperity, 

Yet  in  this  chieftain's  life  we  see 

Enough  of  nobleness  to  prove 

That  one,  at  least,  could  feel  and  love. 

Full  ten-score  years  ago,  and  more, 

When  on  St.  Mary's  wooded  shore 

The  swarthy  Indian  proudly  stood, 

Unchallenged  monarch  of  the  wood; 

When  first  the  white  man  dared  to  brave 

The  wilds  beyond  Ohio's  wave, 

And  many  a  hero  lost  his  life 

Upon  the  stake  or  by  the  knife, 

One  day  the  tribe,  in  council  grave, 

Met  by  the  peaceful  river's  wave. 

Some,  boasting,  showed  their  battle  scars, 

While  others  plotted  future  wars; 

From  wigwams  swaying  in  the  breeze 

Blue  smoke  .curled  upward  through  the  trees, 


39 


Within,  the  dusky  squaws  were  bent, 

Each  on  some  toilsome  task  intent, 

And  on  the  stream  to  instinct  true 

The  urchin  plied  his  fleet  canoe, 

Or  launched  into  a  tree  the  dart 

That  should  have  pierced  a  foeman's  heart; 

Thus  grouped  the  savage  host,  serene, 

Encamped  upon  the  peaceful  scene. 

But  this  was  not  the  business  yet 

For  which  the  braves  that  day  were  met; 

'Twas  matter  of  a  darker  dye 

That  spoke  in  every  warrior's  eye. 

Near  by,  though  from  the  throng  away, 
There  stood  a  squaw  with  locks  of  gray, 
And  standing  by  her  side  a  youth 
Whose  eye  betrayed  a  heart  of  truth, 
A  soul  with  wild  ambition  fired, 
A  mind  of  lofty  thoughts  inspired, 
His  every  look  and  act  confessed 
A  nobler  lineage  than  the  rest, 
Gathered  within  the  camp  that  day 
To  while  the  loitering  hours  away. 
The    woman  was  the  widowed  dame 
Of  him,  now  gone,  whose  peerless  name 


4o 


Honored  by  all  the  tribe  had  stood 
Supreme,  as  patriarch  of  the  wood. 
Her  fondest  hope  and  single  prayer 

Was  that  she  might  survive  the   hour 
To  see  the  lad  beside  her  there 

Invested  with  his  father's  power. 

But  valor  was  the  only  rod 
By  which  these  warriors  would  be  ruled, 
In  danger's  front  had  they  been  schooled, 

And  they  would  brook  no  other  god. 
Thus,  though  they  owned  the  stripling's  blood, 
And  mourned  his  mother's  widowhood, 
Those  heroes  of  a  hundred  wars — 
Deep  seamed  by  honored  battle  scars — 
Would  never  bow  beneath  his  will 
Until,  by  some  brave  act  of  skill, 
Or  master  deed  he  should  evince 
The  prowess  of  an  Indian  prince. 
Hence  was  the  tribe  together  come 
To  choose,  from  out  their  number,  one 
To  lead  their  wars  and  councils  sage 
Till  their  young  chief  should  come  of  age. 


But  hark!     Above  the  lazy  breeze 
That  whispered  soft  among  the  trees 
Was  heard  the  sound  of  many  feet, 
As  through  the  forest's  still  retreat 
A  party  came  with  hurried  tramp, 
Dragging  a  prisoner  into  camp. 
With  hands  and  feet  securely  bound, 
The  captive  sank  upon  the  ground. 
A  son  of  that  despised  race! 
Reflected  on  that  manly  face 
The  resignation  of  despair: 
For  well  he  knew  no  friends  were  there 
To  save  him  from  that  awful  fate — 
The  savage  zeal  to  satiate. 

Past  was  the  time  of  lethargy; 

All  danced  about  in  ghoulish  glee, 

Anticipating  soon  to  see 

Their  victim  writhing  at  the  stake, 

Which  awful  rite  alone  could  slake 

The  vengeance  of  the  Indian's  heart. 

Briefly  the  braves  communed  apart, 

Not  long,  for  in  each  mind  foredoomed, 

The  verdict  was:   "To  be  consumed 

By  torture  at  the  burning  stake." 

So  spake  they  all ;    none  there  to  take 


The  pale -face'  part.    The  dread  decree, 

Announced,  was  hailed  with  wildest  glee. 

Some  hastened  to  prepare  the  tree, 

While  others  for  the  fagots  went 

In  frenzied  zeal ;  each  soul  was  bent 

On  hastening  the  fearful  rite. 

The  captive,  lying  pale  and  white, 

Heroically  endured  the  taunts, 

The  cruel  blows  and  savage  vaunts, 

Cast  upon  him  from  every  side. 

At  last  he  stood,  securely  tied; 

All  was  prepared;  the  lighted  brand 

Blazed  in  the  iron  warrior's  hand. 


'Now  go,  my  son,  and  do  thy  part!" 
Cried  she  who  all  the  while  apart 
Beside  the  youth  in  silence  stood: 
'Now  go  and  prove  thy  sire's  blood 
Runs  not  for  nothing  in  thy  veins. 
Quick!  or  too  late  will  be  thy  pains!" 
Then  suddenly  the  flames  leaped  out, 
As  round  the  pile  with  deafening  shout, 
The  awful  dance  of  death  began, 
When,  lo!  across  the  circle  ran, 
Resistless  as  a  thunder  storm, 
With  lightning  speed,  a  slender  form, 


43 


Scattered  like  reeds  the  crackling  brands, 
Released  the  prisoner's  feet  and  hands, 
And,  placing  in  his  grasp  the  knife, 
Bade  him  be  gone  and  fly  for  life. 
Then,  turning  to  the  astonished  band, 
He  shouted,  with  uplifted  hand: 

'If  you  must  kill,  then  murder  me, 
But  let  this  hapless  man  go  free! 
My  sire's  blood  is  in   these  veins, 
And  well  ye  know  his  soul  disdained 
Thus  cowardly  to  take  the  life 
Of  one  with  whom  he  had  no  strife." 

Half  stupefied,  the  warriors  gazed 
Upon  the  youth,  and  saw,  amazed, 
Him  who  had  dared  this  brave  relief, 
The  son  of  their  departed  chief. 
The  flash  of  anger  in  their  eyes 
Gave  place  to  looks  of  deep  surprise: 
Then  admiration  for  his  deed 
Secured  for  him  the  highest  meed 
Which  a  brave  warrior  could  receive. 
Thus  what  began  an  awful  rite-, 
Ended  a  feast  of  proud  delight; 
Each  warrior  in  that  swarthy  band 


44 


Advanced  to  kiss  the  stripling's  hand, 
And  owned  him  ruler  of  the  land. 

Long  lived  the  youth,  a  ruler  brave, 

Beside  St.  Mary's  peaceful  wave. 

He  drew  his  bow  in  many  a  fight, 

But  ever  on  the  side'  of  right, 

And  through  his  life,  until  the  end, 

He  still  remained  the  white  man's  friend. 

In  battle  strong,  in  council  skilled, 

He  won  the  name  of  Richardville, 

And  over  Indiana's  plains, 

Where  erst  this  noble   savage  reigned, 

His  name  is  known  and  honored  still. 

In  after  years,  when  wars  had  ceased, 
While  signing  documents  of  peace, 
He  met  the  man  whose  life  was  saved 
When  first  his  people's  wrath  he  braved. 
Each  clasped  the  other  as  a  friend, 
And  so  remained  until  the  end. 
The  debt  of  life  was  well  repaid, 
And  when  the  chieftain's  bones  were  laid 
To  rest  beside  their  native  stream, 
The  other,  showing  his  esteem, 


45 


Raised  o'er  his  grave  this  shaft  of  stone, 
And  carved  the  lines  you  see  thereon: 

'Pilgrim,  when  idly  passing  here, 

Tread  lightly  o'er  this  sacred  mound, 

And  grudge  it  not  one  manly  tear, 

For  know,  you  tread  on  sainted  ground. 


46 


A    DUEL    ON    THE    PLAINS. 

1YJUNECHI  and  Swapi  were  warriors  as  brave 

As  ever  encountered  an  enemy's  glave, 
And  oft   through   the   Nation,  when   ranges   were 

wide, 
They  chased   the   fleet  quarry,  or  fought  side  by 

side; 
Each    man    was    endowed    with    the    gift   of   his 

race, — 

Great  physical  powers  and  sinewy  grace, — 
Both  highly  esteemed  in  the  great  tribal  creed, 
That  dare-devil  courage  is  valor,  indeed, 
And  each  held  the  other  in  highest  regard, 
As  worthy  an  Indian's  most  cherished  reward. 

But  one  sorry  day  when  their  passions  were  fired 
They  changed  to  the  likeness  of  demons  inspired. 
'Twas  at  the  wild  race -meet,  where  each  tribal 

steed 

Was  run  o'er  the  courses  for  mettle  and   speed, 
There,  first  in  the   saddle  and  last  in  the  field, 
These  twain  were   victorious,    but   neither  would 

yield 

47 


The  other  his  laurels,  till,  breaking  at  last, 

The    steeds    interfered, — and    the    challenge    was 

cast. 

Impulsively   savage,  their   passions   once   crossed, 
The  friendship  of  years  in  an   instant  was  lost, 
And,  glaring  defiance,  each  in  the  same  breath 
Demanded  the  right  of  a  fight  to  the  death. 

Friends,  half  comprehending,  looked  on  in  dismay, 
But  in  the  dread  finale  had  little  to  say, 
For  deep  in  the  heart  of  the  Indian  is  set 
The  maxim  to  never  forgive  or  forget, 
And  having  inflicted  the  greatest  offense 
Their  customs  afforded,  through  hatred  intense, 
Each   bystander  knew   that  to   protest  were  vain, 
Since    only   their    life-blood    could    wipe    out   the 

stain. 

Hence    sadly  the   old   chieftain   gave   his  consent, 
And  straight   the  two  warriors,  on  murder  intent, 
Selected  their  seconds,  the   surest  of  shot, 
And  armed  them  as  guards  of  the  dueling  spot; 
When,  clasping  a  glittering   knife  in  each  hand, 
They  entered  the  circle  and  took  their  last  stand. 

In  all  the  vast   concourse  no   murmur  was   heard, 
The   contestants,  glaring,  exchanged   not   a  word, 


Forgetting  the  onlookers  standing  inert, 
Each  nerve  at  full  tension,  each  fibre  alert. 
They  stood  as  the  panther  preparing  to  spring, 
Then   cautiously   crossed    and    recrossed    in    the 

ring. 

Each  felt  that  his  uttermost  skill  would  be  tried, 
And  knew  what  a  single  false  movement  implied. 
Look!  quick  as  the  lightning  each  turns  on  his 

heel, 
And    naught    save    the    flashing    and    clashing    of 

steel 
Is   marked   for   a   moment,    then,    breaking,    they 

part, 

With  neither  a  scratch, — what  a  marvel  of  art! 
But  quick  as  a  flash  they  return  to  the  fray, 
And  now  there  is  blood,  and  Nunechi  gives  way; 
No!  see,  'tis  a  feint;  aye!  and  Swapi  goes  down, 
But  not  for  Nunechi  the  conqueror's  crown; 
For  e'en  as  he  bends  the  last  blow  to  impart, 
He  falls  and  expires  with  a  knife  in  his  heart. 
Now   hail   they  the   champion,  whose  conquering 

yell 

Defies  the  poor  clay  of  the  warrior  who  fell; 
But  see  how  he  falters,  how  lowers  his  head! 
He    falls,    and    both    victor   and   vanquished    are 

dead. 


49 


PAWNADAWA'S    VENGEANCE.* 

the  shore  of  Lake  Superior,  one  eventful 
afternoon, — 

'Twas  a  quiet  summer's  evening  in  the  pleasant 
month  of  June — 

Stood  a  scornful  Indian  beauty,  fondly  dreaming, 
half  awake, 

Idly  gazing  at  the  shadows  on  the  bosom  of  the 
lake, — 

Stood  the  winsome  Pawnadawa,  lost  in  medita 
tion  sweet, 

Thinking  of  the  pale-face  lover  whom  she  waited 
there  to  meet. 

Nature  had  bestowed  upon  her  symmetry  of  form 

and  face, 
Graces  that  were  seldom  granted  to  the  daughters 

of  her  race; 


*NOTK  VII.— Appendix. 


Yes,    she    was    indeed    a    beauty,     as    she    stood 

serenely  there, 
Playfully   the   evening   breezes   tossed    about   her 

raven  hair, 
While,  commingled  with    her   tresses  was  a  veri- 

colored  wreath, 
And   her   pouting   lips,    half   parted,    showed   two 

rows  of  pearly  teeth. 

Yet   her    bearing    condescending   showed    a    pride 

that  made  her  vain, 
And  she  looked  upon  her  sisters  of  the  camp  with 

cold  disdain; 
Many  times  had  she  been  courted  by  the  gallants 

of  her  tribe, 
Many    braves    from    other    nations    came    to    woo 

with  costly  bribe, 
But    no  words   or   wiles    could  win    her,  and    she 

sent  each  one  away 
To  be  mocked    by  luckless    rivals,  who    had  seen 

their  humble  day. 

For  the  shaft  had  not  been  feathered  that  should 

pierce  her  wanton  heart, 
Till  the  stranger  from  the  city  came  to  woo  with 

practiced  art, 


As  a  special  trusted    agent  for   the  traders  in  the 

East, 
Giving  for   their   furs    munitions   and    provisions 

for  the  feast. 
Dwelt  he  as  a   prince    among  them,  far   removed 

from  home  and  friends, 
And  the   kindred   social  joys  whereon   so  much  of 

life  depends. 

Sought  he  oft  her  father's  wigwam,  coming  as  an 
honored  guest, 

Where  he  saw  the  little  maiden,  ever  bright  and 
self-possessed, 

Till  he  came  almost  to  love  the  sportive,  way 
ward  forest  child; 

Many  happy,  fleeting  hours  in  her  presence  he 
beguiled, 

And  resolved  at  last  to  woo  her  to  submission,  if 
he  could; 

She  would  make  a  sweet  companion  for  him  in 
this  lonely  wood. 

When  the   time  should  come  for  leaving,  and  his 

mission  here  was  o'er, 
He  could  leave  her  with  her  people — oft  had  this 

been  done  before, 


So  he  flattered  and  caressed  her,  pressed  his  suit 

with  presents  gay, 
Told  her   fancy-colored    stories  of  his  people,  far 

away, — 
Told  the  tale  of  Pocahontas,  and  the  homage  she 

received 
From  the  lofty  lords  and  ladies  in  the  land  beyond 

the  seas: 

Told  her  that  the  pale -face  maidens,  spite  of  all 
their  wordly  goods, 

Could  they  see  her,  all  would  envy  his  dear 
princess  of  the  woods. 

Thus  with  cajoleries  and  falsehoods  he  aroused 
her  love  and  pride 

Till  he  knew  that  he  had  won  her, — that  she  fain 
would  be  his  bride. 

Thus  we  find  her  by  the  lakeside  on  this  sum 
mer's  evening  fair, 

Waiting  for  the  fair  deceiver  who  had  vowed  to 
to  meet  her  there. 

Hist!    she    must   have   heard    him   coming,    for   a 

smile  is  on  her  lips, 
And  as  lightly  as  a   feather  to   her  bark   near  by 

she  skips, 


53 


When,  with  burst  of  merry  laughter,  quick  she 
glides  out  from  the  shore, 

Leaves  him  standing  disconcerted,  though  reluc 
tant  to  implore. 

"Ha,  my  Ernest  is  a  sluggard;  you  have  kept 
me  waiting  long, 

And  I've  half  a  mind  to  leave  you  here,  to  suffer 
for  my  wrong." 

"O,    my   Bright    Eyes,  do    not   leave    me,  come; 

see  here  what  I  have  got." 
And    her   eyes  beheld  the    present;  further  words 

he  needed  not. 
She    returned,    received    the    trinket,    and    repaid 

him  with  a  kiss, 
So  the  twain  embarked  together  in  an  ecstacy  of 

bliss; 
When  she   headed   for   an    island,  gaily  laughing, 

full  of  glee, 
And   went    skipping   o'er   the    water    like    a    gull 

upon  the  sea. 

There   the    fatal    farce   was    acted;    there,    before 

the  twilight  came, 
He    had    asked   the    maid   to   wed   him,    she   had 

vowed  to  bear  his  name. 


54 


Ah!   If   on   that   fateful    evening  then  he  thought 

he  held  his  prize, 
He   had   seen   the   fiends  of   passion   hid  beneath 

those  laughing  eyes! 
Could    he   then   have    known   her   truly,    quickly 

had  he  changed  his  mind, 
But   the    soul    of    man    is   willful,    and    a    lover 

always  blind. 

He   had  with    him    an    assistant   who   was   better 

versed  than  he 
In  the    book  of   Indian    nature,  and  it  pained   his 

heart  to  see, 
This  young,  self -deluded  lover  rushing  onward  to 

his  fate, 
Yet   he   had   not   dared   to  caution,    till,    alas!    it 

was  too  late. 
But   that    night   he    was    returning   from    a    hunt 

along  the  strand, 
And  beheld  the  tender  parting  of  the  twain  upon 

the  sand; 

Heard  the  fulsome  words   they  uttered,  saw  their 

kisses  fondly  blend, 
And    resolved   to  wait   no   longer,  but  at   once  to 

warn  his  friend. 


55 


Hence    that    evening,    after    supper,    as    he    laid 
aside  his  pan, 

He   sat   down    beside    his   messmate,    cleared    his 
throat  and  thus  began: 

"I'm    afraid   you    are    in    danger  from    an    unsus 
pected  foe, 

Would  you  mind  if  1  should  tell  you?"  "Heavens, 
no,  what  is  it,  Joe?" 

"Do   you   mean   to  wed  that  maiden?"  "Does  it 

matter  if  I  do?" 
"Not   to   me,"   Joe    answered,    dryly,    "but,    my 

boy,  it  does  to  you; 
Take   my  warning,  if  you  wed  her,  you  will    rue 

it  ere  you  part, 
Better    try   to    tame    a    serpent    than    that    little 

witch's  heart." 
"Gracious!    man,    what    makes    you    think    so?" 

asked  Lefare  with  wounded  pride; 
"What  would  make  me  think  of   otters  if  1  came 

across  their  slide? 

"I  have   roamed  these  woods  too   often  with   the 

rifle  and  the  axe, 
And    have  seen   too  many  varmints   not   to  know 

them  by  their  tracks; 


I  have  spent    my  life    among  them — and  my  hair 

is  turning  gray — 
Yet  I  never  met  a  creature  half  as  treacherous  as 

they." 
"No,  Joe,  you    are   much    mistaken,  she    is   deep 

in  love  with  me." 
"Well,    perhaps    she  is   at   present,  but  this  will 

not  always  be. 

"Do   you  mean  to  take   her  with   you  when  this 

trading  business  ends?" 
"Take    a    copper-colored    wife    home,    to    be 

laughed  at  by  my  friends? 
Heavens,  man,  you  must   be  crazy:   1   shall  leave 

her  here,  of  course — 
Here,  among  these  savage  people  there's  no    ban 

upon  divorce." 
"Well,    then,    wed    her    if    you    want    to,    but 

remember  what  I  say, 
Better  watch  the  vixen's   motions,  or  you'll  come 

to  grief  some  day. 

"You    had    rather    quit    this    business    and — great 

gophers!  what  was  that?" 
"Nothing    but    a    startled    otter,    or    a    frightened 

water  rat." 


57 


Yes,  an  otter;  had  he  seen  her,  crawling   by  the 

water's  edge, 
Every   fibre   of   her   being    quivering   with    stifled 

rage! 
She   had    listened  to   their   council,  overheard  the 

whole  debate, 
And  her  passion  in  a  moment  turned  from  love  to 

burning  hate. 

Ah!    If   e'er   the    King  of   Evil    sat   enthroned  on 

human  brow, 
He  was  undisputed    master  of  the    Indian   beauty 

now. 
On  she  flew,  her  headlong  passions  broken  loose 

from  all  control, 
Raging  like  a  band  of  furies  through  the  chambers 

of  her  soul. 
Yet   she   met   him  on  the    morrow  with  a   lover's 

gentle  zest, 
And    no    sign    betrayed    the   tempest    that    was 

raging  in  her  breast. 

Till  he  questioned,  all  unconscious  of  the  maiden's 

fell  design: 
"O  my  Bright  Eyes,  little   darling,  tell  me  when 

you  will  be  mine?" 

58 


"At   the    foot    of    yonder    boulder,    if    to-morrow 

morn  be  fair, 
There  will    Bright  Eyes   come   to   meet   thee;  go 

and  wait  thy  answer  there." 
Gladly  he   obeyed  her   summons,  in  the    morning 

fair  and  clear, 
He  sat  waiting  by  the  tryst-place  for  the  maiden 

to  appear. 

Long  he  lingered,  till  the  sunshine,  rising  clear 
above  the  hills, 

Kissed  the  dew  from  off  the  grasses,  dried  the 
mists  above  the  rills, 

Yet  he  did  not  see  her  coming;  what  could  make 
her  stay  so  late? 

Surely  something  had  detained  her.  He  deter 
mined  yet  to  wait. 

Then  he  heard  a  sound  behind  him,  turned,  and 
with  a  shudder  sprang 

As  a  rattlesnake  that  moment,  hissing,  struck 
with  gaping  fang, 

Then  another  and  another:    from  all  sides  he  saw 

them  come, 
Wakened   by   their    leader's    challenge,    and    he 

stood  with  terror  dumb, 


59 


When  a  shout  of  ringing  laughter  grated  harshly 
on  his  ear: — 

"O,  my  Bright  Eyes!  help  me!  save  me!"  cried 
he,  almost  crazed  with  fear; 

"Ha!  Lefare! — thy  tongue  is  falser  than  the  ser 
pents  at  thy  feet, 

But  I  am  the  only  maiden  whom  its  lies  will 
ever  cheat. 

"On  that  same  accursed  evening  when  I  promised 

to  be  thine, 
I    was   close   beside   thy   wigwam,  overheard   thy 

fell  design; 
Made  a  wife   and  then  deserted  for  another?  We 

shall  see; 
Here  I  bade  thee  seek  thy  answer,  fiery  tongues 

will  give  it  thee." 
"If  you   have  a  woman's  pity,"  cried   he,  almost 

choked  for  breath, 
"If  you  have  a   heart  within    you,  save   me  from 

this  awful  death." 

But  the  venom   touched  his  vitals,  and  he  leaped 

in  air  and  fell; 

Then  she  watched  them  pile  upon  him  like  a 
thousand  fiends  of  hell, — 

60 


Saw    him    fight    like    one    enchanted,    with    the 

courage  of  despair, 
While  the  reptiles  coiled  about  him,  mingled  with 

his  flowing  hair; 
And  at  last  when  all  was  ended,  and  the  tortured 

soul  was  gone, 
Still  she    stood   there,  high  above  them,  shouting 

loud  to  hiss  them  on. 

Then    she    sought    old    Joe,   the   trapper;  with   a 

laugh  no  tongue  could  mock, 
"Go,"  she  said,   "thy   master  waits   thee  at  the 

base  of  yonder  rock." 
O,  the  agonies  that  filled  him  when  he  saw  that 

awful  sight, 
Others   might  have    been   deluded,  but  he  judged 

the  scene  aright. 
He  secured  the  mangled  body  from  the  vengeance 

of  the  snakes, 
And  with  tender  care  interred  it  in  a  vale  beside 

the  lake. 

Even   then   he   saw  the  woman,  still    unsatisfied, 

he  thought, 
Laughing  like  some  fiend    incarnate  at  the   havoc 

she  had  wrought. 

61 


"God    forgive    me,"    said    the    veteran,    in    an 
agony  of  strife, 

"It    is    very    wrong    I  know    for    man    to   take   a 
human  life — 

But," — the   ringing  of   a   rifle   cut  the   final-  sen 
tence  short, 

And  the   soul  of    Pawnadawa   took  its   flight  with 
the  report. 

Quickly,  then,  he  hurried  forward,  saw  the  Indian 

girl  was  dead, 
And,    beset  with    sudden    terror,    leaped    in    his 

canoe  and  fled. 
Judge  not  harshly,  gentle  reader,  'twas  a  murder 

to  be  sure, 
But  a   man    is   only  mortal — there    are   things   he 

can't  endure. 


PASSING    OF    THE     MONARCH.* 

CILENCE  deep,  and  keenest  sorrow,  shroud  the 
valley  like  a  pall, 

While  the  news,  in  whispers  broken,  casts  a 
death -damp  over  all. 

Rolls  the  mighty  Mississippi  past  the  wigwam  at 
the  feet 

Of  the  braves,  so  late  victorious,  abject  now,  in 
dumb  retreat: 

And  the  very  heart  of  Nature  seems  to  ache  with 
stifled  pain, 

For  that  life-chord,  rudely  broken,  fondly  cher 
ished,  mourned  in  vain. 


He  is  gone,  the  brave  and  noble,  child  of  Nature, 

master-man, 
Chief    by    right   of    native    merit,    crowned    and 

honored  by  the  clan; 


*NOTE  VIII.— Appendix.  63 


Peerless  in  the  field  of  action,  strong  and  stead 
fast,  sure  of  aim; 

In  the  council  fair  and  fearless,  true  to  every 
fireside  claim. 

Fell  with  him  his  royal  station,  there  is  none  to 
fill  his  place: 

Though  his  life's  interpretation  lingers,  like  a 
parting  grace. 

In  the    river's  grasp  they  found   him,  where,  full 

robed,  he  sank  to  sleep; 
While  the  birds  forgot  their  carols,  and  the  skies 

above  did  weep: 
Yet  we    know,  could    he    have   willed    it,  he   had 

chosen  so  to  die, 
And  each   mortal  course  is  ordered   by  the  Mani- 

tou  on  high. 
Soft  in   mother   earth  they  laid  him,  far   beyond 

the  rolling  wave, 
And   the    winds    of    passing    seasons    sigh    their 

requiems  o'er  his  grave. 


64 


"PILOT'S    GUIDE."* 

"CAPTAIN,"  queried  my  companion — we  were 

^         speeding  with  the  stream, 
In    the    early    summer   twilight,    as    it   were    a 

pleasant  dream, 
Just   below   old    Hamburg   city,    steaming   toward 

the  Illinois, 
Where  it  meets  the  Mississippi,  and  the  steamer's 

graceful  poise, 
As    she    glided    o'er   the   waters   like   a   thing   of 

conscious  pride, 
Formed    an    interesting   contrast  to   the   scene  on 

either  side: — 
"Captain,  yonder  on   the   hill -top,  towering  lofty 

and  alone, 
1  perceive  a  strange  white   object,  like  a  chiseled 

shaft  of  stone: 


*NOTF.   IX.— Appendix, 


Am    1    right   in  the   conjecture  that'  it   represents 

some  mark 

Of  historical  occurrence — of  some  depredation  dark 
Wrought   by  gory -handed    Indians   on  the   sturdy 

pioneers, 
Who   sought   here    to  found    their    homesteads   in 

the  nation's  early  years?" 

"Well,    no,"    said   the   Captain  slowly,    stepping 

to  the  larboard  side, 
"That   old    monument   up   yonder   is    the    river 

pilot's  guide, 
And    no    Indian    as    1    know    of   caused    it   to    be 

planted  there, 
Though   the    redskins   once  were    plenty  in  these 

regions  everywhere. 
Over   there   they   fought   their    battles,    on    that 

desolated  plain, 
And   they  say  that  one  whole    nation    in  a  single 

fight  was  slain; 
People    go   there    every    season    in    the    grass   to 

search  around, 
And    some  very  ugly  weapons   have    been   taken 

from  the  ground. 


66 


Over  here  the  dead  were  buried,  and  these  bluffs 

are  lined  with  graves, 
Where    repose   the    crumbling   frames    of    many 

hundred  fallen  braves; 
Scientists     oft    come    to    dig   them   from    beneath 

the  covering  stones, 
And  have  sometimes  found  old  arrows  sticking  in 

the  brittle  bones. 

"But  excuse  me,  sir;  you   asked  about  the  story 

of  the  shaft 
Standing  on  yon  crowning  hill -top,  which  we  are 

just  leaving  aft. 
You   have   read   of   Enoch    Arden?   Well,  sir,  this 

was  such  a  man, 
Only  no   one  ever   found   out  where  his   troubled 

life  began. 
And  he  never  told  his  secret;  he  was  here  before 

we  came, 
Yes,  a  pioneer  of  pilots,   Marvin  -Thomas  was  his 

name. 
He    came    with    the    early   traffic    on    this    noble 

inland  stream, 
Of  the   first  to   stem   its   current  by  the  agency 

of  steam. 


Many  years  he  plied  these  waters,  and  sometime 

the  boys  still  feel 
As   if   Thomas  were   beside   them,  with   his  hand 

upon  the  wheel; 
He  was   liked    by   all  who   knew  him,  though  he 

never  sought  a  friend, 

Always   ready,  on    occasion,  with  a  helping  hand 
to  lend. 

"Thus  he   lived    and  died    among   us;  but  before 

he  passed  away, 
Made    us   take    his    little    savings,  hoarded    for   a 

rainy  day,  . 

And  exacted  solemn   promise  that  his  clay  should 

be  interred 
On  that  hillside,  where  the  murmur  of  the  waters 

can  be  heard 
In  their   tender,  mournful    cadence,  whose  refrain 

shall  never  cease, — 
That  he  might  lie  down  contented,  and  his  spirit 

rest  in  peace. 
So  we  buried  him  up  yonder,  and  that  monument 

was  raised 
In    remembrance  of  him  and  of  the  early  boating 

days. 


68 


And  whenever  we    are   passing,  any  time  of   day 

or  night, 
Every  eye  in   that   direction   seems   to  turn  with 

keen  delight; 
Like  a   sentinel  on   duty,  high    above  the   river's 

tide, 
It    fulfills    its    friendly    mission,    and    we    call    it 

'Pilots'  Guide.'  " 


Verses  on  Various  Themes 


THE    FOIL    OF    FATE.* 

LJARK,  ye  who  have  listened  to  stories  of  old, 

From  history's  pages   and  narratives  told, 
Of  mortal  encounters  on  honor's  grim  field, 
Where   blood    paid   the   ransom   that   pride  would 

not  yield: 

Not  oft  in  the   book  of   American  fame 
Do  such  things  reflect  on  the  nation's  fair  name; 
But  once,  eight  and  forty  long  summers  ago, 
Where  yon  river's  waters  so  placidly  flow, 
There  crossed  out  of  Alton  a  boat -load  of  men, 
Intent  on  a  conflict  as  thrilling  as  when 
Burr  pointed  his  pistol  with  well -practiced  art, 
And  sent  a  ball  crashing  through  Hamilton's  heart. 

The  flower  and  pride  of  the  young  Prairie  State — 
The  veterans  of  finance  and  peers  of  debate — 
Were  parties  to  that  dread   excursion,  whose  end 
Each  dreading,  fore -guessed    in    the   death  of   his 
friend — 


*NOTK  X. — Appendix. 


Or  one  or  the  other  of  two  men,  whose  life 
Was  linked  with  the  issues  of  national  strife; 
Each  young  in  the  vigor  of  manhood  and  deeds, 
Espousing  the  tenets  of  opposite  creeds; 
Each  standing  for  principles  equally  strong, 
Inspired  by  the  lilt  of  ambition's  glad  song, 
Though  holding  already  high  places  of  trust 
In  office  and  council.     They  came  to  adjust 
A  personal  question  of  honor  so  grave 
That   nothing,    they   deemed,    short  of   bloodshed 

could  save 

The  fair  name  of  either;  and   yet  was   the  cause 
A  matter  so  small  that,  reflecting,  we  pause 
To  wonder  how  men  of  their  metal  could  deem 
Their  precepts  and  prospects  and  friendly  esteem 
So  easily  blighted.     The  records,  though  dim, 
Depict  a  good  joke  and  a  giddy  girl's  whim, 
Which  wrought  the  estrangement  and  brought  by 

degrees 
The   challenge    which    nothing    but    blood   might 

appease. 


On  yonder  green  isle  of  Missouri's  dark  soil 
The   field  was   selected,  and    swords  without  foil, 


74 


Keen -edged    were    the     weapons,    whose    thrust 

neither  feared; 

The  fighting  arena  was  speedily  cleared, 
And  there,  in  the  shade  of  the  towering  trees, 
Whose  canopy  waved  in  the  murmuring  breeze, 
The  distance  was  measured,  each  man  to  his  place, 
The  referee  called  to  attention  and  "face." 

But  then,  as  their  weapons  flashed  forth  into  place, 
A  pitying  protest  was  marked  on  each  face 
Of  those  who  stood  by,  and,  by  common  consent, 
They  cried  as  one  voice  the  first  blow  to  prevent; 
And  one,  in  behalf  of  the  company,  said — 
A  sunbeam  enshrining  his  uncovered  head:— 
"By  all  you  believe,  friends,  by  those  whom  you 

love — 
By    Him    who    looks    down    on    this   scene  from 

above — 

By  party  and  state  and  your  own  simple  worth, 
I  pray  you  desist;  cast  your  weapons  to  earth." 

A  flood  of  revulsion  as  strong  as  the  tide 
That  rolled  in  the  river  so  near  to  one  side, 
Swept  over  each  heart  as,  with  weapons  at  rest, 
The  duelists,  clasping,  their  errors  confessed. 


75 


A    friendship    was    formed   on    that    spot,    which, 

though  tried 

In  many  political  battles,  defied 
All  thought  of  enstrangement.     Each  held  in  his  day 
Positions  of  power,  and  conquered  his  way 
Through  national  conflict  as  bitter,  and  fraught 
With  venomous  hate,  as   the  battle  they  sought; 
But,  martyr  and  statesman,  each  willingly  classed 
The  other  in  highest  esteem  to  the  last. 

'Twas   well   for   the    nation   that,    by   their   own 

hands, 
Their    blood  was    not    spilt    on    those    dank  river 

sands. 

Their  history  is  written,  and    each  honored  name 
Preserved  in  the  national  archives  of  fame, 
Rings  down  through  the  ages,  a  lesson  sublime 
Of   manhood    and    progress    that    counts    for    all 

time. 

The  Father  of  Waters  still  washes  to-day 
The   point   where   they   met,  as   he    rolls   on    his 

way; 

And  oft  as  the  steamer  goes  laboring  by, 
The  passenger  seeks  with  inquisitive  eye 
Some  landmark  recalling,  upon  those  green  fields, 
The  bloodless  encounter  of  Lincoln  and  Shields. 


THE    HOUSE    WHERE    I    WAS    BORN. 

J  TPON  the  old  familiar  height, 

Time-stained  and  weather-worn, 
It  stands  in  hallowed  majesty — 

The  house  where  I  was  born. 
I  gaze  upon  it,  deeply  moved, 

And  live,  in  fancy,  o'er 
The  pleasant  scenes  and  incidents 

Of  youth,  that's  mine  no  more. 

'Twas  here  I  first  beheld  the  light 

And  found  the  world   so  fair, 
Till  young  ambition,  waked  by  love, 

Undid  the  clasp  of  care; 
Here,  too,  I  learned  the  earliest  truth 

By  blest  surroundings  taught, 
And  builded  nobler  works  each  day 

Than  since  my  hands  have  wrought. 

77 


The  casements  in  the  sunset  glow 
All  burnished  seem  with  gold, 

And  sparkle  with  reflected  light 
Of  memories  bright  and  old; 

E'en  as  the  fading  day  was  fair 
With  all  that  makes  complete, 

Recalling  of  its  brief  career 
The  story  fond  and  sweet. 

Ah,  well,  if,  when  my  work  is  done, 

Others  its  worth  shall  see, 
And  grant  that  1  have  wrought  as  well 

As  thou,  old  home,  for  me; 
Whose  influence  still,  my  safest  guide, 

Is  with  me  every  day; 
An  arm  of  strength  and  star  of  hope 

On  life's  uncertain  way. 

Those  humble  walls  are  rich  compared 

With  others  gay  and  grand, 
Holding  a  charm  which  none  but  one 

Who  lived  may  understand. 
No  grace  of  Nature  could  enhance, 

Nor  artist's  touch  adorn 
The  sacred  halo  that  pervades 

The  house  where  I  was  born. 


PEARLS    OF    POESY. 

,  pearls  of  purest  poesy, 
So  beautiful  and  rare! 
Could  we  but  find  their  dwelling  place, 

'Twere  sweet  to  linger  there, 
'Mid  scenes  of  radiant  light  and  love, 

Where  inspiration's   fount 
Springs  up  in  rich  abundance,  from 
The  heart  of  pleasure's  mount. 

But,  even  as  the  ocean  pearls 
We  cherish,  dearly  bought, 

These  jewels  of  the  intellect, 

With  life's  best  essence  fraught, 

Are  only  seldom  captured  from 
The  deepest  wells  of  thought. 


79 


'MID    SCENES    OF    YOUTH. 

DACK   upon   the   dear  old   homestead,  with  the 

ones  who  love  me  well, 
And  each  object  wakes  an  echo  of  fond  memories 

that  swell 

Like  a  surging  tide  around  me, 
Where  my  happy  childhood  found  me, 
Till  my  soul  is  wild  within  me  with  a  joy  I  may 
not  tell. 


Every    voice    is    rich    with    music,    as    of    far-off 

minstrelsy, 
And    each   tender   thought,    responsive,  tells   how 

good  it  is  to  be; 
'Tis  an  ecstasy  as  holy 
As  the  Christ- love,  and  as  lowly 
As  the  humble  scenes  that  sanctify  this  hallowed 
spot  for  me. 

80 


Every  landmark  is  familiar,  and    my  heart,  prone 

to  enjoy, 
Finds  old  friends  with  pulse   ecstatic  as  it   hailed 

its  earliest  toy; 

While  each  woodland  whisper  falling 
Seems  an  old  companion  calling 
From  the   undulating   pastures  where    I  wandered 
as  a  boy. 

All    is    rare    and   fair   and    fragrant,    and    awhile 

life's  worries  cease, 
As  the   spirit  unencumbered   springs  aloft  in  glad 

release ; 

While  a  warmth  beyond  concealing 
Sounds  the  depths  of  fellow-feeling, 
And    I  walk   as   one   transported,    in    a    realm   of 
perfect  peace. 


A    LESSON    FOR    LENT. 

,  rest  from   thy  troubles,    thou  world-weary 

soul ; 

Embrace  and  find  peace  in  the  Lord; 
Grieve  not  for  thy  failure  to  reach  the  longed  goal, 
But  turn  to  His  comforting  word. 

The  sorrows  that  sadden  the  journey  of  life 
Are  mellowed  by  prayer's  earnest  pleas; 

The  longed-for  relief  from  earth's  jostle  and  strife 
The  Savior's  fond  love  will  appease. 

Whenever  the  Tempter  entices  away 

Thou'lt  always  find  help  at  the  throne; 

And  passions  that  rise  in   the  world's   bitter  fray 
God  quells  and  gives  strength  to  disown. 


CHRISTIAN    WOMANHOOD. 

TO    A    YOUNG     LADY    FRIEND    ON    HER    UNITING    WITH    THE    CHURCH. 

\/OU  did  not  need  to  join  the   church 
To  be  and  act  a  Christian's  part, 
For  truth  was  always  on  your  lips, 
And  God  dwelt  ever  in  your  heart. 

And  yet  your  brave  admission  comes 
Like  a  blest  message  from  above — 

An  inspiration  to  the  world 

Reflective  of  the  Savior's  love. 

When  woman's  head   is  bowed  in  prayer, 
The  listening  angels  pause  to  hear, 

And  each  petition  uttered  there 

Shall  echo  through  the  boundless  spheres. 

Who  knows  how  much  of  all  the  good 
Which  man  has  compassed   by  degrees, 

Was  given  in  answer  to  the  plea 

Of  women  on  their  bended  knees, — 

83 


Whose  intercessions  never  cease 

Their  missions  at  the  Throne  of  Grace, 

Petitioning  the  Prince  of  Peace 
For  favors  to  the  human  race. 

Blest  be  the  Christian  woman's  life: 
Heav'n  ordained  gift,  on  earth  divine, 

Since  man,  degenerate  child  of  strife, 
First  worshipped  at  its  holy  shrine. 


84 


BY    THE    RIVER. 

AN    ALLEGORY. 

,  river  that  flowest  so  peacefully   on, 

What  is  it  I  hear  in  thy  mellow  refrain 
That   comforteth    me   for   the    hopes   that   have 

flown, 
And   bringeth  the  peace    I  have   prayed  for  in 

vain? 
Methinks  as  I  list  to  thy  murmuring  song, 

Thou  speakest   in  tones  of  condolence  to  me, 
And  bearest  my  turbulent  spirits  along, 

Confessing  a  bond  of  relation  with  thee." 

"O,  heart  grown    aweary  with    sorrow  and   care, 
Weep    not   for   the  dreams  thou  hast  failed  to 

attain, 

What   brooks  it  to  yield  to  the  voice  of   despair, 
Or  mourn  for  the  hopes  we  have  cherished  in 
vain? 

85 


We  are  but  the  children  of  Infinite  will — 
Small  atomic  parts  of  the  formative  plan — 

Performing  the  tasks  we  were  sent  to  fulfill, 
And  ending  at  last  where  at  first  we  began." 

"•Yet  thou  art  so  merry  and  singest  of  rest 

To  me  who  am  weary  of   life  and  its  woes, 
Reviving  a  hope  in  my  sorrowing  breast 

Of  comfort  and   peace  which  this  world  never 

knows. 
Hast  thou  never  troubles  to  ruffle  thy  tide, 

That  ever  thou   seemest   so   cheerful  and  gay 
As  on  through  the  beautiful  valley  dost  glide? 

Blest  wanderer,  tell  me  thy  secret,  1  pray." 

"Yes,  yes,  dearest  heart,  1  have  troubles  enow, 

As  many,  I  trow,  as  thy  pulse  ever  knew, 
Yet  ever  fulfilling  my  duties  I  go, 

Refreshing  the  land  while  meandering  through. 
I  nurture  the  fishes  that  bide  on  my  breast, 

Support  on  my  bosom  the  traffic  of  trade: 
I  am  but  a  servant,  yet  service  is  blest, 

And  duty  accomplished  goes  never  unpaid. 


86 


"Do  therefore  be  patient  and  cease  to  complain, 

Fulfilling  each  duty  with  gentle  accord, 
Sure,  nothing  was  ever  created  in  vain, 

And  time,  in  due  season,  will  bring  the  reward. 
Aye,  down  at  the  end  of  the  journey  we  plod 

The  haven  is  waiting  for  thee,  friend,  and  me: 
Thou  goest  to  rest  on  the  bosom  of  God, 

And  I  to  my  bed  in  the  billowy  sea." 


THE    SILVER    WEDDING. 

f^VEAR    sweetheart,    let   us   dream    to-night  the 

old  dreams  o'er  again, 
Recall  once  more  the  joyful  throng  that  gathered 

round  us  then, 
Just  five -and -twenty   years   ago,  when  thou,  my 

bonny  bride, 
First  plighted  me  thy  maiden  troth  here  standing 

at  thy  side: 
And  I  did  promise  all  to  thee  that  my  fond  heart 

could  give, — 
To  cherish,  honor,  and    protect,  long   as  we  both 

should  live; 
While   fond   ones   pressed   to   wish   us  well,  and 

sought  to  calm  the  fears 
That   overflowed  through   those  dark  eyes  in  half 

regretful  tears. 

So   long   ago,  and   yet,  dear   heart,  it   seems  but 

yesterday, 
Since   erst    you   left   your   childhood's   home    and 

came  with  me  away; 

88 


Much  have  we  seen  and  felt  since  then  of  hap 
piness  and  pain, 

That  left  its  threads  of  gray  and  gold  in  memory's 
silken  skein: 

Together  we  have  loved  and  worked  through 
swiftly  passing  years, 

In  fields  of  sunshine  and  success,  and  sorrow's 
vale  of  tears. 

Thy  tresses  show  the  silver  now,  but  yet  thou 
art  as  fair 

As  when  they  wound  the  bridal  wreath  among 
thy  raven  hair. 

And  now,  as  on  that  day  when  first  their  blessings 

freely  fell, 
A  merry  circle   gathers   round,  once  more  to  wish 

us  well ; 
But  now  they  are   our  children   dear,  with   faces 

fresh  and  fair, — 
Fond   hearts  whose  warm    and   tender   love   have 

well  repaid  our  care. 
Yes,  all    are   gathered   round  the   hearth,  not  one 

has  gone  away; 
And    listen,    dear,    for   they   would    speak.    What 

have  they  come  to  say! 


"Kind   parents,  to  whose  constant   care   and   all- 

enduring  love 
We    owe  a   debt   of   gratitude   which    naught  can 

e'er  remove, 
All  that  the  coming  years  can   give,  to  bless  this 

quiet  scene, 
We   fain   would   have   them   bring   to   cheer   and 

grace  your  life  serene; 
And  we  will    labor  to   fulfill   the   grateful   thought 

we  pray, 
That   you   may   live    as   happy   till    your    golden 

wedding  day." 


THE    TWO    ANGLERS. 

A  WAY  with  dull  duties,  with  business  away! 
We're   foot -loose   for   once,  and   are   off   for 

the  day. 

Out  into  the  country  with  sunlight  agleam, 
'Mid  infinite  freedom  of  forest  and  stream. 
Here  scorn  we  the  lore  and  the  legends  of  books, 
To  study  the  science  of  tackle  and  hooks 
With  interest  profound,  that  denotes   this  a  sport 
As  rich  as  the  rarest  that  mortal  may  court. 
But  even  while  luring  with  minnow  and  fly 
The  deep-water  denizens,  wary  and  shy, 
E'en  during  the  typical  strike,  while  I  feel 
The  weight  of  the  captive  that   tugs  at   the  reel, 
A  mem'ry  of  childhood,  a  vision  of  old, 
Comes  over  me  now,  like  a  glimmer  of  gold 
Athwart  the  horizon  at  set  of  the  sun, 
Recalling  the  dawn  of  a  day  that  is  done. 
And,  as  with  a  glass,  where  the  dim  shadows  meet, 
I  see  a  young  hopeful,  with  unstockinged  feet, 
Steal  over  the  stile  to  the  pasture  beyond, 
To  fish,  though  forbidden,  down  at  the  old  pond. 


Though  years  intervene  'twixt  the  boy  and  the  man, 

A  kindred  affinity  bridges  the  span. 

So  quickly  the  latter  is  lost,  and  the  lad 

Revisits  the  scene  which  his  elders  forbade. 

No  day  holds  such  promise,  no   skies  are  so  fair, 

No  pleasure  so  perfect  or  nearly  so  rare; 

No  latest  invention  appeals  to  his  soul 

As  those  angle  worms  and  the  sassafras  pole, 

With  cord-line  and  pin-hook  he's  wont  to  employ, 

Whenever  occasion  permits  it — the  boy 

Who  down    by  the  old   pasture  stile,  and  beyond, 

Went  fishin'  for  suckers  in  grandfather's  pond. 


MAMMA'S    VALENTINES. 

f~\F    all    the    pretty    valentines   that   circulate 

to-day, 
Methinks  by  far  the   fairest  are  my  little  ones  at 

play; 
Nor  aught  of  wit  or  sentiment   these   messengers 

convey 
Can    match   my   babies'    pathos,    or  the  cunning 

things  they  say. 

There's  more  of  joy  in  one  brief  hour  of  this  dear 

trinity 
Of  faces  bright  as   hope's   own  star,  of  life  from 

guile  so  free; 
And    in    these    thumb -leaved    nursery   rhymes    of 

sweet  simplicity, 
Than  all   the    valentines   that    e'er   the    postman 

brought  to  me. 

No  thought  by  Cupid  e'er  transcribed  on  sta 
tioner's  designs,  / 

Though  laden  with  heart's  treasures  that  o'er- 
flowed  between  the  lines, 

Was  quite  so  pure  and  holy  as  the  trusting  love 
that  shines 

In  every  little  sunny  face  of  Mamma's  valentines. 


93 


THE    NOBLER    CREED. 

,  Ingersoll,  how  hast  thou  taught 
That  "death  is  but  a  dreamless  sleep," 
And  that  life's  pilgrimage  is  fraught 

With  nothing  sacred  in  our  keep, — 
That  all  our  service  may  command 

Is  that  which  may  be  compassed  in 
The  span  of  earth's  existence,  and 
E'en  "suicide  is  not  a  sin." 

An'  this  be  true,  what  recompense 

Were  there  for  all  the  toil  and  pain, 
Encountered  here;  what  consequence 

Save  that  all  strife,  all  hope  were  vain? 
Then  truly  were  all  things  but  chance 

On  this  forlorn,  terrestrial  ball, 
With  life  an  aimless  circumstance, 

And  man  the  puppet  of  it  all. 


94 


A  nobler  creed  was  his  who  penned 

The  "Psalm  of  Life,"  whose  lines  extol 
The  truth  that  death  is   not  the  end 

Of  life:   "The  tomb  is  not  its  goal." 
How  warms  the  heart  to  perfect  trust 

In  that  divinely  simple  scroll; 
Surmounting  e'en  the  "dust  to  dust," 

As  never  "spoken  of  the  soul." 

Indeed,  who  reads  great  Nature's  book 

Can  doubt  not  life's  immortal  dower; 
The  forest,  field  and  running  brook 

Teach  resurrection  every  hour: 
Who,  then,  would  choose  with  Ingersoll 

His  gloomy  gospel  of  despair? 
When  "Hope"  is  written  over  all 

The  earth,  in  lessons  bright  and  fair. 


95 


OUT    OF    THE    PAST. 

IN  listless  mood  I  sat  me  down  to  rest 

Upon  the  lintel  of  an  oaken  door 
Deserted  years  agone,  and  now  possessed 

By  clambering  vines  whose  verdure  covered  o'er 
The  crumbling  walls  that  framed  the  happy  home 

Of  sturdy  pioneers,  whose  heirs  to-day 
Dwell  in  the  shadow  of  yon  towering  dome, 

Where  wealth  is  king,  all  else  but  common  clay. 

And  musing   here,  methought   I  heard  the  chimes 

Of  music  soft,  attuned  to  sturdy  toil, 
By  those  brave  spirits  of  the  early  times 

Who  drove  the  furrows  through  the  virgin  soil : 
The  glad  refrain — ere  gold  and  gilded  sin 

Had  caught  the  land  in  their  dread  undertow — 
Of  blithesome  lives  that  drank  the  sunshine  in; 

And  cheery  voices,  hushed  long,  long  ago. 


CONVALESCENCE. 

'"THERE  came  a  robber  into  my  home 

One  dreary  September  day; 
His  name  was  Death,  and  he  sought  to  steal 
The  love  of  my  life  away. 

Full  armed  was  he  in  his  sinister  quest, 

To  smite  with  remorseless  hand, 
And  when  I  bade  him  begone,  he  scorned 

The  plea  of  my  rash  demand. 

The  world  was  drear  in  mine  eyes  that  day, 
Though  brightly  the  sun  did  shine, 

Hope's  lamp  burned  low,  and  the  birds'  glad  song 
Seemed  nothing  at  all  divine. 


But  faith  is  stronger  than  fate,  1  ween, 
And  love  than  a  moment's  fears; 

Through  Him,  who  orders  the  tide  of  life 
And  shapeth  the  course  of  years. 


97 


The  hand  that  threatened  was  turned  aside, 

And  into  the  house  there  came 
A  boundless  joy  when  my  darling  woke, 

And  smiled  as  1  spoke  her  name. 

Her  dear  face  glows  by  the  hearth  once  more 

And,  marry,  this  heart  of  mine 
Hears,  'mid  the  sough  of  the  autumn  gale, 

The  lilt  of  a  song  divine. 


98 


BLIGHTED. 

DDT  yester'  eve  I  proudly  strolled 
*^       Among  the  greening  orchard  trees, 
Bedecked  with  bursting  buds  that  told 

Of  mellowy  fruits  in  all  degrees. 
Methought  I  saw  the  harvest  time 

Already  dawning,  and  the  air 
Forescented  by  the  summer's  thyme, 

With   plenty  smiling  everywhere. 
So  happy  in  the  promised  yield, 

I  held  it  e'en  as  certain  gain, 
And  all  that  fancy's  flight  revealed 
I  counted  in  mine  own  domain. 

Alack!   to-day  1  walked  again 

Those  orchard  rows,  how  sadly  changed! 
Where  all  was  growth  and  promise  then 

Is  naught  of  either.     All  estranged 
The  landscape  seems,  and  crumpled  leaves, 

Their  symmetry  and  beauty  gone, 
Like  prematurely  gathered  sheaves, 

Droop  from  the  boughs  they  grew  upon. 


99 


On  every  hand  is  quick  decay — 

Sad    sequence  of  the    Frost  King's  blight, - 
By  whom  the  buds  of  yesterday 

Were  blasted  in  a  single  night. 

So  have  I  seen  the  fairest  hope 

That  blossomed  in  the  heart  of  youth, 
Crushed  out  in  its  divinest  scope 

And  withered  by  the  fires  of  ruth. 
What  lesson,  what  example  here? 

What  recompense  for  so  much  pain? 
The  stricken  flower,  the  smarting  tear, 

How  can  we  count  its  passing  gain? 
We  may  not  tell;  we  are  but  blind; 

We  trust  because  we  cannot  know, 
That  in  this  loss  we  still  may  find 

The  wiser  plan  which  willed  it  so. 


THE    COMING    OF    THE    BRIDE. 

'"THE  peace  that  comes  of  perfect  love 

And  warms  the  constant  heart, 
Be  o'er  this  home  and  bless  this  hour 

With  all  its  vows  impart, 
While  we  are  gathered,  as  of  old, 

Responsive  Nature  stayed, 
When  angels  wrote  the  plighted  troth 

Of  first  fond  man  and  maid. 

Obedient  to  the  master  touch, 

The  ivory  keys  proclaim 
A  happier  triumph  than  was  e'er 

Achieved  on  field  of  fame, 
For  ne'er  was  holier  circumstance 

By  music  ratified, 
Than  when  the  wedding  march  proclaims 

The  coming  of  the  bride. 


The  hopes  and  fears  of  other  years — 

The  day-dreams  that  have   sped, 
Are  vanished  like  the  summer  dews 

That  bowed  the  lily's  head; 
The  vague  regrets  and  might-have-beens 

That  vex  the  youthful  breast, 
Are  merged  in  blessed  certainty 

That  that  which  is,  is  best, 

Florescent  sprays  of  mignonette, 

The  pansy's  graceful  pose, 
The  drooping  branch  of  bleeding  heart 

That  blushes  with  the  rose, 
Are  symbolized  in  yon  pure  gift 

Of  Flora's  fairest  dower, 
That  sanctifies  this  circle  with 

Its  crown  of  orange  flower. 

And  as,  anon,  the  clergyman 

With  voice  distinct  and  slow, 
Conducts  the  solemn  services 

That  join  for  weal  or  woe, 
The  loftiest  pledge  that  language  e'er 

Has  turned  to  human  skill, 
Twice  spoken,  seals  the  compact  with 

The  glad  response,  "I  will." 


Amen!  We  greet  the  bride  and  groom, 

And  wish  them,  with  the  flow 
Of  life's  fleet  tide,  a  peaceful  cruise, 

Inspired  as  we  go 
To  draw  the  portieres  of  our  hearts 

About  this  love -lit  scene, 
And  pray,  "God  bless  them  through  the  course 

Of  years  that  intervene." 


103 


THE    SCHOOL-HOUSE    ON    THE    HILL. 

T~\OWN   the    lane    and    up   the   valley,    through 

the  pasture  by  the  mill, 
Lies   the   pathway,    and    I    follow,    as    it  were,  a 

child  at  will, 
Till    it    ends   beneath   the    belfry    of  the   school - 

house  on  the  hill. 

Like  a  hymn  of   consecration,  and  with    meaning 

as  complete 
As    the    score    of    rude    initials    carved    upon    the 

rearmost  seat, 
Are  the  merry  peals  of   laughter  and   the  rush  of 

nimble  feet 

On  the  playground,  as  I  linger,  fain  to  be  a  boy 

again, 
And   forgetful  of  the   changes   that   have   marked 

my  way  since  then — 
Innocent  of   all  the  worries  of  this  world  of  busy 

men. 


104 


As  by  some  magician's  challenge,  all    the  past  is 

swept  away, 
And  the  boys  and  girls  of  forty  are  the  children 

of  to-day, 
In  this  hour  of  intermission,  given  up  to  joyous 

play. 

Some    contending    in    the    forum    to    redeem    the 

Golden  Rule, 
Some  are  weaving  webs  of  fancy  from  tradition's 

mystic  spool ; 
Others,  passed  to  broader  vision  in  a  better, 

higher  school, 

Since   they   heard    that   bell    at    recess    sound    its 

summons,  as  sublime 
And    as   potent   in   its   echoes   down   the   endless 

course  of  Time, 
As  the  Sabbath  morning  message  of  the  grandest 

steeple  chime. 

Seems    as    if   the   voice    of    conscience,    speaking 

through  that  oaken  door, 
Would    reproach   me   as  unworthy  of  the    lessons 

learned  of  yore — 
That  those  precepts  should  have  fruited  in  a  fund 

of  riper  lore. 


Yet,  a  deeper   sense   assures  me  that  whate'er    I 

may  have  wrought 
Worthy    of    commemoration    in    the    argosies    of 

thought, 
Grew  e'en   from  this   humble  temple    where   my 

A.  B.  C.'s  were  taught. 

Every  memory  is  sacred,  and  the  eye  of  fancy  sees 
Joy  or  penitence  responsive  to  the  teacher's  stern 

decrees ; 
And   what    pastimes!    From   the   ball -field  to  the 

jolly  spelling  bees. 

Through  the  mist  of   life's   emotions  it  conveys  a 

subtle  thrill; 
So,  God  grant  that  in  the  gloaming  1  may  see  it 

standing,  still, 
And  inhale  the  inspiration  of  the  school -house  on 

the  hill. 


106 


GLAD    EASTER    TIME. 

OAIL  the  resurrection  anthems 
Sounding  merrily  and  free, 
As  of  old  their  music  echoed 

O'er  the  tide  of  Gallilee; 
Heralding  the  final  triumph 

Over  sorrow  and  the  tomb, 
Sung  by  every  voice  of  nature, 

Symbolized  in  every  bloom 
That  adorns  the  smiling  landscape 

On  this  merry  Easter  morn, 
Bright  with  hope  and   fair  with  promise 

Of  a  higher  life,  new-born. 

Bringing  peace  to  all  the  nation 
Through  the  grace  of  love  divine, 

Warming  every  Christian  spirit, 
Like  the  thrill  of  sacred  wine: 


107 


With  the  pulse  of  fellow  feeling 

In  the  pleasure  we  impart, 
By  the  gifts  which  bless  the  giver, 

Sending  joy  to  every  heart; 
Happy  in  the  glad  fulfillment, 

Told  in  every  steeple  chime, 
Of  the  promises  of  Christmas 

In  the  fact  of  Easter  time. 


1 08 


A    CAMP-SIDE     REVERIE. 

CORGETTING  all  the  world's  affairs, 
Its  endless,  vexing  grind  of  cares, 
Perplexities  and  cunning  snares: 

Recumbent  by  the  fire 
Of  smouldering  logs,  on  summer  night, 
Just  thinking,  by  the  flickering  light, 
Good,  lazy  thoughts;  to  what  delight 

More  pure  could  man  aspire? 

With  nothing  to  disturb  the  mind, 
Lulled  and  caressed  by  whisp'ring  wind, 
Here  may  the  spirit,  self -resigned, 

Repose  in  perfect  peace; 
Where  life's  elixir  comes  unsought, 
Borne  in  the  breezes,  fragrance  fraught, 
By  every  touch  of  nature  taught, 

'Mid  songs  that  never  cease. 


109 


Songs  of  the  insects,  soft  and  sweet, 
Frogs  in  the  waters  at  thy  feet, 
And  night-birds  in  their  dark  retreat, 

All  help  to  weave  the  spell, 
Whose  charm  surcharges  all  my  heart 
With  subtle  joy,  the  rarest  art 
Of  worded  language  to  impart 

Has  not  the  power  to  tell. 

No  monarch  in  his  princely  bower 

E'er  reveled  in  a  richer  hour, 

Nor  found  the  subjects  of  his  power 

More  tractile  to  his  wish, 
Than  I  in  this  Arcadian  dream, 
While  pondering  many  a  subtle  scheme 
For  luring  from  his  native  stream 

My  finny  friend,  the  fish. 


THE    FISH    WE    FAILED    TO    LAND. 

""THROUGH   the  early  twilight  shadows,  singing 

in  falsetto  shrill, 
Comes    an    urchin    o'er   the    meadows    from    the 

creek  across  the  hill ; 
Nimble    footed,   though    so    tired   from   his   romps 

along  the  stream, 
Like    a   hero,  self-inspired,    while   his   dark   eyes 

fairly  gleam 
With    exultant    animation    as    he    holds    aloft    his 

"string," 

And  begins  his   proud   narration,  with  the  crafts 
man's  coloring. 

And  he  tells  us,  bidding  slyly  for  another  holiday, 
Of  the  catch  of  Jimmy  Riley  and  what  whoppers 

got  away! 
Then — observe  the  tone  of  sorrow,  as  he  lays  the 

tempting  lure — 
If  he  might  but   go  to-morrow  he    could  do  much 

better,  sure. 


How    his    daft    adroitness    moves    you    with    a 

kindred  feeling  deep; 
And    a   subtle    sense    reproves   you,    as   you  say, 

"The  fish  will  keep." 
For  the  voice  of  memory  reasons  from  those  little 

sunburned  feet, 
Backward    through    a    score   of    seasons  thronged 

with  happenings  sad  and  sweet, 
Ruminating  fancy  lingers  over  many  a  fickle  dream 
That  has  slipped  between    your  fingers  since  you 

fished  in  yonder  stream; 
And  you  read  the  grave  condition,  which  this  lad 

is  yet  untaught,— 
In  the  shade  of  each  ambition  and  the  recompense 

it  brought;— 
That  the  life  of  man  forever  echoes  to  some  vain 

regret, 
And    its   bravest,  best   endeavor  was  the   fish  he 

failed  to  get. 


THE    HUNTSMAN. 

T  IP  in  the  morn  with  the  first  peep  of  daylight, 

Out  in  the  meadows  ahead  of  the  sun; 
Off  for  a  respite  from  dull  office  duties, 
Over  the  hills  with  dog,  tackle  and  gun. 

Buoyant  and  free  as  the  breezes  of  autumn, 
Murmuring  soft  over  woodland  and  wold; 

Tingles  each  fiber  with  anticipation, 

Watching  each  moment  a  mark  to  behold. 

Up  and  away,  jovial  and  gay, 

Far  from  the  grind  of  care,  calm  in   his  glee; 
Over  the  field,  pleasure  must  yield, 

Joy  to  the  hunter,  contented  and  free. 

List!  over  yonder  the  partridge  is  calling, 

Hear  how  he  thrashes  the  air  with  his  wings; 

Steady!     well  done!   see  the  bird  lightly    falling, 
Caught  by  my  trusty  retriever;  he  springs 

"3 


Back  and  away  where  the  covey  has  settled, 
What  tho'  we  miss  them,  the  sport  is  the  same; 

Failure  but  sharpens  the  sportman's  ambition; 
Lives  there  a  man  of  infallible  aim? 

Thus  goes  the  day;  tell  me,  I  pray, 

Is  there  a  pastime  as  healthful  and  free? 

Truce  to  all  sport  others  may  court, 

Gun,  field  and  dog  are  the  fairest  for  me. 

Or  if  the  scene  be  the  river  or  marshland,— 
Whether  for   feathered  or  four-footed  game,— 

So  but  success  crown  the  earnest  endeavor, 
Matters  but  little,  the  pleasure's  the  same. 

Sing  who  may  list  of  the  ball -field's  attractions, 
Games  that  have  flourished  awhile  and  declined ; 

None  may  compare  with  the  pleasures  that,  hidden, 
Fostered  by  Nature,  here  'wait  who  shall  find. 

List  to  the  horn,  fresh  on  the  morn, 
Echoing  clear  over  woodland  and  lea, 

Seek  if  you  will  elsewhere,  but  still 

Forest  and  field  are  the  fairest  for  me. 


114 


NOT  IN  THE  PAST. 

IVIOT  in  the  past,  'midst  fallen  thrones, 

Haunted  by  ghosts  of  vanished  power, 
Can  we  find  answers  for  the  needs 
And  questions  of  the  present  hour. 

Not  he  is  great  who  idly  mourns 
The  downfall  of  an  ancient  State, 

But  he  who  strives  and  thinks  to  save 
His  country  from  as  dark  a  fate. 

Muse  not  on  haughty  Caesar's  rule, 

Whose  bones  long  since  returned  to  clay; 
But  in  the  present  busy  world 
Be  thou  the  Cassar  of  to-day. 

O,  dreamer  in  the  aisles  of  Time, 

Arouse  thee  from  thy  reverie, 
Awake!   Come  to  the  front  and  fight 

For  thy  own  home  and  liberty: 
Turn  from  the  ruins  of  the  past 

To  that  whjch  js,  and  is  to  be! 


MONOTONE. 

,  monotone, — of  warring  words 
That  echo  to  life's  vain  appeal, 
Or  weave  their  phantom  frames  about 

The  image  of  each  lost  ideal, — 
Of  winds  that  whistle  evermore, 

And  seem  to  mock,  malignantly, 
All  things  that  bide  upon  the  earth 
And,  fettered,  struggle  to  be  free. 

Oh,  voice  of  Nature,  vast  and  lone, 

Though  by  each  passing  sound  instilled, 

Gathered  through  all  the  ages  flown, 
And  with  quintescent  sadness  filled; 

Like  some  lost  spirit  making  moan 
For  every  promise,  unfulfilled. 


116 


THE    IMAGE    BREAKER. 

CTAND  back!    thou  rash   iconoclast! 

Lift  not  thy  prodding  spade  to  blast 
Yon  sacred  temple  of  the  dead! 
What  wouldst  thou  with  the  weapons  dread 
That  guard  this  long-lost  people's  dust? 
To  pander  an  ignoble  lust, 
And  steal  the  secrets  of  the  past! 
No  grave  can  hold  its  treasure  fast;— 
No  fame  so  high,  no  shrine  so  pure — 
No  hallowed  image  is  secure 
Against  the  sacrilegious  blade 
That  marks  the  relic-hunter's  trade! 

In  every  nook  of  every  land 
Are  works  of  his  defacing  hand; 
And  why?  What  has  he  for  his  toil? 
A  pile  of  useless,  crumbling  spoil, 
Which  cannot  serve  one  worthy  end, 
Much  less  his  lawless  work  defend. 

O,  cease,  traducer  of  the  grave, 
Leave  to  the  past  her  rusted   glave; 
Leave  them  in  peace — these  mummied  things- 
And  study  truth  from  living  springs; 
Confine  thyself  to  modern  bounds, 
And  let  tradition  guard  these  mounds. 
117 


TO    A    TREE     FROG. 

CAUCY  little  elfin  prophet, 

Challenging  the  thirsty  wold 
From  its  fitful  mid -day  slumber 

With  thy  croaking,  harsh  and  bold- 
How  dost  know  a  storm  is  brewing, 

When  no  cloud  is  in  the  sky? 
And  each  drooping  thing  about  thee 

Seems  to  give  thee  back  the  lie? 

Hast  some  subtle  intuition 

In  thy  secret  cell  of  bark? 
Or  a  mystic  cipher  message 

From  the  Rain  God's  distant  ark? 
Or  art  merely  telling  falsely 

To  awaken  doubt  and  strife? 
If  so,  and  I  had  thee  captive, 

It  should  quickly  cost  thy  life, 

Nay,  but  I  believe  thee,  truly; 

Thou  wast  reared  in  Nature's  heart, 
Where  no  falsehood  e'er  is  nourished, 
And  shouldst  know  thy  single  art 
Over  more  pretentious  prophets: 

Else  thy  lot  were  wholly  vain. 
All  athirst  the  world  is  waiting, 
Speed  the  promise — let  it  rain. 

118 


THE    LESSON    OF    COLUMBUS.* 

"/^OLUMBUS!"    how    the    chorus    swells    in 

^•^         honor  to  the   name, 
As  on   this  festal   day  we    meet  to   celebrate   his 

fame, 
And   fling   the    flags    of   freedom   on    the    sombre 

autumn  breeze, 
E'en    as    of   old    they   waved   for   him    upon   the 

friendly  seas, 
As   from   the   court   of  Spain   his  ships  went   out 

with  sails  unfurled, 
To  battle  with  the  elements  and  find  another  world. 

Four    hundred    years    ago,    and    yet    it    does    not 

seem  so  long: 
The  memory  is    so  well  preserved  in   history  and 

song; 
Each  child   has  heard  the   story  of  that   earnest, 

fearless  man, 
Who  braved  a  thousand  unknown  deaths  to  verify 

his  plan, 
That,  far  beyond  the  Western  skies,  where  none 

had  gone  before, 
The  sun  that   seemed  to  dip  the  wave,  shone  on 

some  fairer  shore. 


*NOTE  XL— Appendix.  119 


A  mighty  thought   it  was,  than   which    no   nobler 

e'er  was  known; 
And  greater  still  the  master   mind  that   faced  the 

world  alone, 
With    fortitude    to    bear   the  taunts   of    unbelief, 

and  then 
Persuade    a     doubting    monarch    to     provide    the 

means  and  men 

To  prove  his  theory  correct,  or  forfeit  with  his  own, 
Those    other    lives,    and    bring   reproof    upon   the 

Spanish  throne. 

Thus    from   the    life    which    gave   the   world   this 

Western  hemisphere 
We  learn   our    noblest   lesson   still, — to   dare   and 

persevere. 
All  that  we  have  achieved  since  then  is  from  that 

precept  drawn, 
Still  nerving   us  to   better  deeds  and   pointing  on 

and  on: 
E'en  as  of  old  Columbus'  ships,  with  silken  sails 

unfurled, 
Were    guided    o'er    the    trackless    deep    to    find 

another  world. 


BALLAD    OF    THE    BRAVE. 

HARK!  hark  to  the  beating 
Of  music  repeating 
The  charge  for  the  meeting 

Of  armies  of  old. 
But  softly,  more  slowly, 
More  hallowed  and  holy, 
Each  patriot  bows  lowly 
Whenever  'tis  told; — 

The  story  recalling 
Of  battles  befalling 
With  carnage  appalling 

From  sabre  and  shell; 
Where  heroes  unbending 
For  honors  contending, 
Their  colors  defending, 

Fought,  conquered  and  fell. 


This  day  does  the  Nation 
In  proud  celebration 
Of  commemoration, 

Bring  flowers  and  tears, 
Their  graves  fondly  strewing, 
And  praises  renewing, 
The  fame  of  whose  doing 

Fades  not  with  the  years. 

Old  comrades  repeating, 
Ere  once  more  retreating, 
The  bivouac's  greeting 

Above  the  green  mold; 
And  they,  in  their  glory 
Of  battle-fields  gory, 
Sleep  on  through  the  story 

That  never  grows  old. 


ONCE    MORE    WITH    REJOICING. 


more    with    rejoicing,    fair    day,    in   thy 
glory, 

We  welcome  the   memories  thy  echoes  recall; 
From  pulpit  and   stage  we   repeat  the   glad  story, 
How  freedom  first  echoed  through  liberty's  hall. 
In  glad  celebration 
The  sons  of  the  nation 

Assemble  again  'neath  the  red,  white  and  blue  — 
With  memories  glowing, 
And  hearts  overflowing. 
With  all  that  is  loyal  and  tender  and  true. 

'Tis  meet  that  we  come  thus  in    fancy  reviewing 
The  scenes  where  was  planted  fair  liberty's  tree, 
Each  young  generation  the  pledges  renewing 
That  made  our  country  "the  land  of  the  free;" 

With  rocket  and  rattle 

Repeating  the  battle 
Wherein  the  oppressor  was  conquered  and  fell  ; 

Each  stroke  from  the  steeple 

And  shout  of  the  people 
Recalling  the  chimes  of  the  Liberty  bell. 


123 


Dear  land  for  whose  welfare  our  fathers  have  striven, 

To  free  thee  forever  from  tyranny's  rod 
Thy  past  we  bequeath  to  the  keeping  of  heaven — 
Thy  future  we  trust  to  the  mercy  of  God. 
With  hearts  proudly  beating, 
Hozannas  repeating, 

We  leave  .thee  again  to  the  guidance  Divine; 
May  wars  never  scatter 
Thy  homesteads,  or  shatter 
The  banner  that  waves  over  Liberty's  shrine. 


124 


LIFE'S    RURAL    WAY. 

R  from  the  city's  noisome  scenes  away 
Happy  are  those  who  thread  earth's  rural  way. 
Not  in  the  crowd  that  throngs  the  busy  street, 
Among  the  fleeting  faces  that  we  meet; 
Not  in  the  whirl  of  the  commercial  mart, 
The  school  of  pleasure  or  the  hall  of  art, 
Nor  anywhere  in  this  chaotic  round 
Is  life's  complete  fulfillment  ever  found, 

Go  ye  who  this  most   fragrant  flower  would  find, 
Of  sweet  contentment  to  the  soul  and  mind, 
Go  seek  where  nature's  bounty  freely  yields 
The  restful  opulence  of  sunny  fields; 
Aye,  go  and  be  as  yonder  sturdy  swain 
Who  knows  or  cares    not  that  his   dress  is  plain, 
Whose  best  ambition  from  his  daily  toil 
To  glean  the  product  of  the  native  soil. 


125 


Nothing  to  him  is  fashion's  frail  regard, 
The  thirst  for  office  or  its  false  reward:     .  • 
He  worships  fortune  with  his  own  right  hand; 
Is  self-dependent, — bows  to  no  command,— 
And   spurns  the  dullard  who   presumes  to  scorn 
The  honest  value  of  an  ear  of  corn. 

With  him  to  dwell  among  the  orchard  trees, 
Inhale  the  fragrance  of  the  fruitful  breeze, 
Or  in  the  woods,  of  other  days  to  dream, 
Soothed  by  the  ripple  of   some  pasture  stream ; 
Here  dwells  the  peace  of  pleasure  most  profound, 
Spiced  by  the  salt  of  duty's  daily  round. 
Blessed  beyond  the  common  ken  are  they 
Who  thus  elect  to  tread  life's  rural  way. 


126 


LIKE    AS    A    STAR. 

T   STOOD  upon  the  vernal  height 
Of  youth,  and  gazing  out  afar, 
Beheld  the  iridescent  light 

Of  Fortune,  like  a  shooting  star; 
Harnessed  to  hopes  that  in  their  reach 

Outspanned  the  noblest  mind's  desire; 
And  which,  translated  into  speech, 

Would  glow  with  inspiration's  fire. 

Then,  looking  down,  I  saw  below 

A  shadow  flitting  in  the  dark, 
And  threading  cables  to  and  fro 

To  drag  to  earth  that  shining  mark. 
To  rise  or  fall — to  wane  or  shine, 

Such  is  the  struggle,  passing  o'er; 
Transcendent  as  a  light  divine, 

Or  falling,  to  be  seen  no  more. 


127 


E'en  such  is  life — an  orb  of  light 

Drifting  athwart  the  vault  of  Time; 
A  day-star  jeweled  in  the  night 

Of  earth's  dark  ways — a  spark  sublime 
That,  tending  upwards  in  its  course, 

And  growing  still  to  more  and  more, 
Would  thrill  the  droning  world,  and  force 

Its  light  beyond  the  finite  shore. 

But  in  the  shadow- lands  of  sin 

There  lurk  the  demons  of  despair, 
Weaving  their  webs  of  doubt,  wherein 

Bright  spirits  find  their  fatal  snare. 
'Twixt  hope  to  rise,  and  fear  to  fall — 

So  passes  every  mortal  span; 
While  One,  presiding  over  all, 

Works  out  the  great  Creative  Plan. 


128 


WHAT    MIGHT    NOT    BE. 

]\]AY,  do  not  think  me  cold  of  heart 

Because  I  never  spoke  of  love; 
Nor  charge  me  with  so  base  a  part 

As  these  old  letters  seem  to  prove. 
Friends  let  us  be,  as  erst  we  were; 

And  though  we  may  not  quite  forget, 
Let  naught  that  others  may  aver 

Bring  back  to  us  one  vain  regret. 

Had  1  but  dared,  1  might  have  told — 
But  no,  this  cannot  help  us  now: 
Duty  forbade  that  sacred  vow. 

Perchance  the  future  yet  may  hold 
For  us  some  sweet  reward  in  store, 
When  love  illumes  a  brighter  shore. 


129 


HEROES    UNREVEALED. 

\A7HO  said  our  heroes  all  were  gone? 
Not  so!     By  heaven,  'tis  untrue! 
Ye  measure  but  what  men  have  done, 
•  And  not  what  others  yet  may  do. 

True,  those  were  brave  who  fought  our  wars 
And,  honor-crowned,  have  gone  to  rest, 

But  then  it  needs  not  battle  scars 
The  spirit's  valor  to  attest. 

The  land  has  many  sons  as  brave, 
Who  never  saw  the  bloody  field, 

As  those  who  faced  a  nameless  grave 

Their  country's  flag  from  shame  to  shield. 

Though  yet,  perchance,  it  sleeps  unkenned — 
Uncalled,  and  therefore  unconfessed, 

Let  but  Columbia  call:   "Defend!" 
The  fire  will  blaze  in  every  breast. 

"To  arms!"  let  once  the  trumpet  peal, 
And  mark  the  answering  host  immense: 

With  courage  strong  and  hearts  as  leal 
As  ever  fought  in  her  defense. 


130 


IN    THE    OLD    PRISON    CEMETERY. 


LJARK,  to  the  beat  of  myriad  feet  that  over  hill 

and  dell 
Come    to    dispose    the    graves    of   those    who   for 

their  country  fell! 
Sad  recompense  for  their  defence  of  this  fair  land 

of  ours; 
We  go   each  year  with    grateful  tears,  and   strew 

their  graves  with  flowers. 
With    fife    and    drum   again    we    come,    and    flags 

unfurled  to  view, 
As  erst  they  came,  and  laud  their  fame — the  boys 

who  wore  the  blue. 


But    where    are    they    who    wore    the    gray    and 

perish'ed  far  from  home, 
Whose  life,  enthralled    in    prison  walls,  went   out 

unwept,  unknown? 
Fond    hearts   that   yearned    for   their    return  were 

anxious  all  in  vain, 
Straining  the  view  till  their  life,  too,  went  out  in 

silent  pain. 


Unmarked   to-day  they  sleep,  and,  aye,   the  voice 

of  love  is  mute; 
None  visit   here,  with  flowers   and   tears,   to  fire 

the  grave's  salute; 
Yet   who   may   tell    but,   just   as   well,  they   rest 

beneath  the  moss, 
As    those    whose    bed    is    heralded    by    towering 

shaft  and  cross? 
The    stone    that    marks    the    soldier's    rest,    here 

'neath  the  greening  sod, 
Points    from    these    quiet   meadows,    through    the 

shadows,  up  to  God. 


132 


A    WORD.* 

A    WORD,  a  breath,  that  scarcely  moves, 

^*       Which  to  no  soul  one  tremor  brings — 

A  word,  that  shakes  earth's  deepest  grooves 

And  bears  the  whirlwind  on  its  wings. 

A  word,  a  sound,  in  earnest  spoken, 

That  thrills  the  heart  with  quickening  touch, 

Has  oft  united,  oft  has  broken — 
A  word,  so  little  yet  so  much. 

"A  word  of  doom;  ah!  who  knows  whether 
He  hath  not  lengthened  that  dark  scroll? 

A  word  of  love,  like  unctioned  feather, 
It  heals  some  weary,  wounded  soul. 

A  word  of  light,  illumes  the  mountain, 

Or  shrouds  the  vale  of  life's  reverse. 
A  word!   'tis  joy's  or  sorrow's  fountain: 
A  benediction,  or  a  curse. 


NOTE    XII. — Appendix. 


THE  SUBMERGED  CITY.* 

CROM    the    ocean's    depths    'mid    sea-weeds 
springing, 

Curfew  bells  are  ringing  soft  and  low, 
To  the  sailors'  eyes  strange  tidings  bringing 

Of  the  grand  old  town  that  lies  below. 

Deep  within  the  heaving  depths  of  the  ocean 
Are  its  turrets  standing  far  below, 

And  above  them  is  the  billow's  motion 
Lighted  with  a  strange  and  fitful  glow. 

And  the  sailor  who,  at  sunset  peering, 
Saw  the  magic  light  from  off  the  shore, 

In  that  same  direction  still  is  steering, 

Though  the  billows  round  him  madly  roar. 

*     *     * 

From  my  heart's  deep  fountains,  sadly  springing, 

Memory's  bells  are  ringing  soft  and  low; 
To  my  sea-sick  soul  strange  tidings  bringing 

Of  the  dear  old  friends  of  long  ago. 
Ah!   a  beauteous  city  there  lies  sleeping — 

Like  a  glimpse  of  paradise  it  seems — 
Oft  when  I  beheld  its  turrets,  weeping, 

In  the  blessed  mirror  of  my  dreams. 


*NOTE  XIII.— Appendix.  134 


A    THRENODY    OF    TEARS. 


DEPRESS  not  the  bright  tear  that  dims  thine  eye, 
Since,  dear,  I  know  that  it  was  meant  for  me : 
May  I  but  kiss  the  love -lit  token  dry 

That  trembles  on  thy  lids  so  witchingly! 
Through  tears  like  these  angelic  spirits  shine, 
And  I  would  know  thee  never  less  divine. 


Yet  every  tear,  alas,  betokens  pain, 

And  is  the  sign  of  tender  soul's  unrest; 

And  I  do  pray  thee,  dearest,  to  refrain 

From  judgment,  if  my  tongue  hath  seemed  to  jest. 

Claim  thou  my  heart's  blood,  who  hast  wept  for  me, 

And  hold  me  still  for  aye  in  debt  to  thee. 

Sometimes,  when  others  dared  to  call  me  base, 
And  sinister  hatred  barred  my  humble  way; 

1  found  sweet  inspiration  in  thy  face, 

As  angels  pure,  who  at   God's   footstool  pray. 

And  were  I  bad  at  heart  as  they  have  said, 

No  seraph  for  me  had    bowed  her  weeping   head. 

135 


Peace,  darling,  1  will  dry  them,  every  one — 
The  tears  thou'st  wept  on  this  devoted  breast, — 

Thus   they  have    gone:  their   holy  work  is  done, 
And  through  the  pain  there  comes  love's  per 
fect  rest. 

Nay,  weep  no  more — and  at  God's  altar  fair, 

I'll  weave  the  myrtle  in  thy  silken  hair. 


136 


A    SONG    OF    LABOR    DAY. 

'TO -DAY   the   toilers   of  the   land,   with   sturdy 

voice  and  tread, 
Proclaim    how    good    a   thing    it    is    to    strive   for 

honest  bread. 
A  mighty  bannered  host  they  march,  like  veterans 

to  the  wars, 
And  proudly  every  man  salutes  the  nation's  stripes 

and  stars: 
Nor    grander    army    e'er    went    forth    to    fight    in 

Freedom's  name, 
Than   they  who  on   this   festal  day   their    loyalty 

proclaim 
To    home    and    country,    church    and    State, — to 

every  grace  that  gives 
Each    man   the    ample    blessings   of  the  sphere  in 

which  he  lives. 

Though   military  armament   and   code    be  missing 

here, 
Much  more  there  is  of  hope  and  faith,  much  less 

of  doubt  and  fear; 


137 


Where    every    man    a    soldier    is,    to    follow    and 

command, 
Himself  a   host;  his  battlefield,  the    labors  of  his 

hand. 

Honor  the  hero  and  the  time,  and  let  forensic  art 
Rehearse  the  lessons  and  the  truths  which  are  its 

highest  part. 
Proud  is  the  nation  in  her  strength,  but  proudest 

most  of  those 
Who  make  her  fields  and  factories,  and  to  whose 

might  she  owes 
The    garnered  wealth    that    makes  her    great — by 

whose  support  she  stands 
Above  all  others  of  the  earth,  the  queen  of  happy 

lands. 
Be  this  the  motto  of  the  hour:   "  'Tis  noblest   to 

be  true, 
With    hand    and    heart   to   every   task   that    duty 

brings  us  to." 


138 


DEFERRED. 

T    OOK  you  at  yon  two  radiant  orbs 

Approaching  in  the  Western  sky, 
So  closely  that  their   light  absorbs 

The  space  between,  to  mortal  eye. 
We  gaze  across  the  distance  and 

In  fancy  see  the  stars  embrace; 
Pleased,  though  we    may  not   understand 

This  love  scene  in  the  realms  of  space. 
But  mark  how  brief  the  tryst  has  been; 

Where  lately  they  appeared  as  one, 
Now  shines  a  streak  of  gold  between, 

Reflected  from  the  setting  sun, 
Yes,  Nature's  laws,  must  be  obeyed, 

E'en  here  as  in  the  lives  of  me'n, 
And  years  shall  lengthen  to  decades, 

Ere  yon  two  planets  meet  again. 

So  have  1  known — pray  who  has  not?  — 
Two  souls  that  for  each  other  seemed 

Designed:  whose  every  act  and  thought 
Each  in  the  other's  self  redeemed. 


And  here,  methought,  is  one  ideal 

Of  poets  dreamed,  in  fact  fulfilled; 
While,  gazing  on  their  bliss  so  real, 

My  soul  with  kindred  rapture  thrilled. 
Alas,  when  next  I  looked,  a  spell 

Of  sadness  on  each  face  was  set, 
Betraying,  as  they  said,   "Farewell," 

The  shadow  of  a  life's  regret. 
Yet  purpose  rules  the  orb  of  earth, 

And  'spite  of  all  its  purchased  pain, 
The  hopes  that  fade  in  sorrow's  dearth, 

Though  long  deferred,  are  not  in  vain. 


140 


SING    WE    OF    LOVE. 


T 
*-* 


ONG,  long  ago,  love," 
Thus  runs  the  song; 
Sweetly  the  music 

Ripples  along. 
Hark!  how  the  rhythm, 

Tender  and  slow, 
Echoes  our  young  love, 
Long,  long  ago. 

What  does  it  teach  us, 

Love,  can  you  hear? 
Borne  in  the  measure 

Year  after  year; 
Seasons  of  gladness— 

Moments  of  woe— 
Whereof  we  dreamed  not 

Long,  long  ago. 

Have  we  regrets,  love? 

E'en  did  we  stray 
Near  to  the  edge  of 

Life's  pleasant  way? 


141 


Be  this  forgotten; 

How  could  we  know 
Where  there  was  danger 

Long,  long  ago? 

Such  is  love's  guerdon — 

Counting  as  gain 
Every  achievement 

Compassed  through  pain, 
Therefore  we  sing,  since 

God  willed  it  so, 
Happier  now  than 

E'en,  long  ago. 


142 


THE    SILENT    SENTINEL. 

A  S  the  picket  lone  who,  stationed, 
When  the  army  rests  at  large, 
Guards  the  sleeping  camp  from  danger 

By  the  foemen's  stealthy  charge, 
Stands  the  conscience  in  the  vanguard 

Of  the  mind's  defensive  host, 
Challenging  each  doubtful  motive 
That  would  pass  the  outer  post. 

Safe  the  heart  while  conscience,  faithful, 

Watches  on  the  outer  wall, 
And  each  better  pulse  responsive, 

Rallies  at  the  warning  call, 
But  the  soul  is  deep  in  danger 

If  this  guardian  flinch  or  fall. 


THE    MUSIC    OF    THE    WHEEL. 

while  waiting  slumber's  coming 
1  have  listened  to  the  drumming, 
As  of  some  great  bee-hive  humming, 

Of  the  steamer's  ponderous  wheel; 
And  the  troubled  waters  gushing, 
In  their  pent-up  quarters  flushing, 
As  if  anxious,  in  their  rushing, 
To  escape  the  rudder's  heel. 

How  the  paddles'  rhythmic  measure 
Hurls  the  foam  from  their  embrasure, 
Seemingly  in  savage  pleasure, 

With  each  turning  of  the  wheel ; 
While  the  river,  gliding  under 
With  a  swell  like  distant  thunder, 
Brings  sugge'stive  thoughts  to  ponder 

Till  the  senses  fairly  reel! 

Thus  the  mighty  palpitation 
And  the  dull  reverberation 
Time  the  steady  oscillation 

Of  the  massive  shafts  of  steel, 
Until  Fancy  goes  off  dancing, 
Into  Dreamland's  shadows  prancing, 
Like  the  spray -beat  waves  aglancing 

From  the  vessel's  flying  keel. 
144 


HYPOCRISY. 

IVJOT  from  the  round  of  mortal  cares 
The  worry  of  the  world's  affairs, 
Its  open  pits  and  hidden  snares; 
From  obstacles  that  block  life's  way 
As  down  the  path  from  day  to  day 
Toward  the  final  goal  we  stray, 
Would  I  most  fain  be  free: 

But  from  the  cant  of  party  schools, 
The  babble  of  pedantic  fools, 
The  senseless  sway  of  Fashion's  rules; 
From  friends  who  do  not  sympathize, 
Who  poison  grief  with  hollow  sighs 
And  flatter  truth  with  conscious  lies,— 
From  these  deliver  me. 


M5 


THE    BATTLE    OF    BRAINS. 

]\lAPOLEON  stood  grieving  on  Helena's  isle; 

He  thought  of  his  forfeited  crown, 
And  of  the  mistake  in  the  battle  which  turned 

The  tide  of  his  life  and  renown. 
"Had    Grouchy  not  failed  me,"  he   bitterly  said, 

"We  could  not  have  lost,  that  is  plain; 
The  French  would  have  won  and  the  vultures  of  war 

Had  feasted  on  Wellington's  brain." 

Life  is  but  a  bivouac,  the  world  is  its  field, 

And  men  are  all  soldiers  of  fame, 
Who  struggle  for  points  of  position  and  place, 

Where  honors  are  fraught  with  acclaim. 
Engagements  are  many,  and  skirmishes  oft 

Take  place  on  disputed  domain, 
But  all  the  great  victories  counting  for  time 

Are  wrought  through  the  battle  of  brain. 


This  greatest  of  conflicts  the  world  ever  knew 

Is  waging  forever  and  aye; 
Wherever  men  meet,  e'en  in  labors  of  love, 

They  join  in  the  ceaseless  affray. 
Each  grapples  his  neighbor  and  struggles  with  might 

Some  stealthy  advantage  to  gain, 
And  one  must  go  down — inexorable  tide 

Of  fate  in  this  conquest  of  brain. 

Each  man  is  a  private,  enlisted  for  life, 

Or  drafted  for  service  in  youth, 
And  none  may  avoid  it,  e'en  bodily  ills 

Commend  nor  exemption  or  ruth. 
Though  thousands  disabled  are    sent  to  the   rear, 

Their  trouble  ends  not  in  the  pain: 
Aye!   still  unavoidable  unto  the  last, 

It  rages — the  battle  of  brain. 

Here  are  no  deserters,  nor  bushwhacking  clans, 

For  none  may  avoid  or  invade 
The  code  of  fair  conquest,  and  yet,  in  the  end 

All  soldiers  are  pensioned  and  paid. 
Each  one  is  rewarded  as  he  may  achieve, 

And  none  ever  conquered  in  vain, 
And  leisure  and  pleasure  are  guerdon  for  all 

Who  win  the  great  battle  of  brain. 


IN    AFTER    YEARS. 


T    ET  us  walk  again,  dear  Allie, 

Down  the  peaceful  twilight  valley; 
O'er  the    lealand   to  the    pebble -garnished  shore, 

Where  the  evening  lights  are  gleaming, 

And  thy  poet's  fancy,  dreaming, 
Like  the  love  of  other  years,  has  gone  before. 


Thinking  of  the  sweet  old   story, 

When,  by  yonder  promontory, 
Thou  didst  own  the  dear  regard  that  made  thee  mine, 

Thrills  my  soul  with  subtle  sadness, 

Born  of  all  those  years  of  gladness, 
Like  the  sparkling   after-taste   of   seasoned  wine. 

While  the  harbor  wind's  low  droning 

All  the  tenderness  is  owning 
That  companionship  hath  brought  to  thee  and  me; 

And  the  voice  of  memory  calling, 

On  the  ear  so  softly  falling, 
As  the  ceaseless,  mellow  sounding  of  the  sea. 

148 


Time  hath  fled,  dear,  since  the  season 
When,  by  love's  exquisite  reason, 

First  we  walked  the  beach  together,  hand  in  hand; 
Yet  our  course  hath  had  no  turning 
Since  I  stooped  and,  thrilled  with  yearning, 

Marked  our  monogram  upon  the  shifting  sand. 

Youth  is  fickle,  time  is  fleeting, 

Every  pleasure  is  retreating, 
And  the  heart  may  sleep  to-night  that  warms  to-day ; 

But  for  us  the  pristine  glory 

Ne'er  shall  fade  from  life's  fond  story, 
Who  abide,  each  in  the  other,  while  we  may. 


149 


WHEN    THE    HOUSEWIFE    IS    AWAY. 

A  LL  the  house  is  strangely  dreary, 

That  was  always  erst  so  cheery, 
And  a  something  sad  and  eerie 

Dwells  within,  that  seems  to   say: 
"There  is  none  here  to  reprove  us, 
Much  less  challenge  and  remove  us 
From  the  shadowy  nooks  that  love  us, 
Since  the  housewife  is  away." 

Seems  the  bric-a-brac   all  tarnished, 
And  the  furniture  unvarnished, 
Every  article  dust-garnished, 

Never  so  until  to-day; 
There  is  chaos  from  the  table 
To  the  rusted  kitchen  ladle, 
And,  alack!  the  empty  cradle 

Tells  that  mamma  is  away. 

Not  the  blissful  daily  meeting, 
Nor  one  word  of  kindly  greeting, 
No  familiar  sound  repeating 

Save  the  saucy  mice  at  play; 
And  the  husband  lingers  only 
To  select  a  hearth  more  homely, 
For  the  house  is  all  too  lonely 

When  the  little  wife's  away. 
150 


A    WINTER'S    STORM. 

T~\ARK  is  the  sky,  of  inky  hue, 

Lost  every  faintest  gleam  of  light; 
No  friendly  star  appears  in  view 

To  cheer  us  with  its  presence  bright, 
For  once  the  prophecies  were  true,— 

The  storm -king  is  abroad  to-night. 
The  wind,  like  some  lost,  living  thing, 

Moans  'round  the  house  with  doleful  screech ; 
Sets  every  timber  shuddering, 

Chastising  all  within  its  reach; 
Threshes  the  river  with  its  wing, 

And  hurls  the  breakers  on  the  beach. 

Trembles  the  earth  beneath  the  strain 

And  seems  to  plead  for  clemency, 
Spurned  by  the  storm  in  cold  disdain, 

Which  laughs  aloud  in  savage  glee; 
While  from  the  lowering  clouds,  the  rain 

Is  swept  in  torrents  o'er  the  lea. 
God  help  the  vessel,  gone  amiss, 

That  rides  the  deep  with  sails  unfurled 
Amid  the  roaring  tempest's  hiss: 

And  'fend  each  soul  by  fate  imperiled 
To  wander,  on  a  night  like  this, 

Homeless  and  friendless  through  the  world ! 


IF    WE    WERE    YOUNG    AGAIN. 

"'""THINK  you,"  my  dear  wife  said  to  me, 

One  evening  as  we  sat  at  tea, 
"Would  we  as  fond  and  foolish  be 

If  we  were  young  again?" 
"Methinks  it  surely  could  not  be, 
And  we  would  live  as  merrily, 
With  less  of  youth's  frivolity, 
If  we  were  young  again. 

"How  many  an  endless  debt  we  owe 
For  inconsiderate  'yes'  or  <n°»' 
That  surely  we  would  now  forego 

If  we  were  young  again; 
And  looking  backward  o'er  life's  plain, 
What  gloomy  days,  what  bitter  pain 
Are  there,  that  might  be  lasting  gain 

If  we  were  young  again. 


152 


'Twere  sweet  to  walk  those  thymy  ways 
With  lowlier  hearts,  more  prone  to   praise, 
And  leave  no  rue  for  later  days — 

If  we  were  young  again." 
"Nay,  love,"  I  answered,   "age  is  prone 
To  censure  from  its  sombre  throne 
As  faults,  acts  we  would  proudly  own 

If  we  were  young  again. 

"Forgetting  how  it  grew  to  be, 
It  views,  through  glasses,  scornfully, 
Motes  of  misconduct  none  might  see 

If  we  were  young  again; 
Those  foibles  of  the  early  years, 
Chastened  by  riper  joys  and  tears, 
Temper  the  whole,  which  God  reveres — 

Though  we  were  young  again. 

"Those  acts  we  now  would  fain    recall 
Would  hold  us  in  their  pleasant  thrall, 
Nor  would  we  deem  them  strange,  withal, 

If  we  were  young  again. 
Nay,  we  would  scorn  youth's  Paradise, 
Discover  with  the  self-same  eyes, 
But  just  as  foolish — and  as  wise,— 

If  we  were  young  again." 


153 


THE    ROSE. 

T   PLUCKED  a  rose  with  careless  hand, 

Gazed  on  its  perfect  charms  unmoved, 
And,  marking  scarce  that  it  was  fair, 

I  gave  it  to  the  girl  1    loved. 
She  took  it  with  a  gracious  smile 

That  might  dispel  the  deepest  gloom, 
And,  holding  up  the  trembling  thing, 

Bade  me  inhale  its  sweet  perfume. 

As  I  obeyed  her  dear  behest 

I  caught  a  scent  so  sweet  and  rare 

It  seemed  sublime,  and  which  before 
I  had  not  dreamed  lay  hidden  there. 

She  pinned  it  fast,  when  I  beheld 

A  thousand  beauties  it  possessed, 

Yet  which  I  ne'er  had  marked  until 

I  saw  it  blushing  on  her  breast. 


154 


Ah!   woman,  such  thy  mission  here, 

Sent  as  a  blessing  to  the  earth 
To  find  for  us  each  fragrant  flower 

That  blooms  amid  life's  dross  and  dearth, 
Our  natures  are  too  coarsely  strung, 

Our  days  too  full  of  busy  hours 
To  note,  unprompted,  and  enjoy, 

The  fragrance  of  the  wayside  flowers. 

Man  has  not  any  joys  on  earth — 

No  hour  of  pure  and  perfect  glee,— 
O  woman,  pearl  of  priceless  worth, 

That  does  not,  somehow,  come  from  thee. 
Thyself  the  fairest  flower  of  all 

That  man  may  worship  in  his  day, 
Thy  mission  is  to  help  and  bless 

And  cheer  him  on  his  weary  way. 


155 


SEPTEMBER  SYMPHONIES. 

JVJOW  comes  the  mellow  time  of  year, 

When  o'er  the  smiling  land 
The  genius  of  the  harvest  rides 

And  casts,  with  bounteous  hand, 
The  golden  fruits  of  labor  to 

The  gleaners  of  the  field, 
Whose  honest  hearts  o'erflow  with  thanks 

For  each  abundant  yield. 

Now  calls  again  the  whippoorwill, 

And  in  the  ripened  grass 
The  crickets  and  the  katydids 

Repeat  their  nightly  mass. 
The  quail  is  piping  in  the  woods, 

And  by  the  river's  edge 
The  bull -frog  croaks  his  plaintive  lay 

Among  the  broken  sedge. 

The  ripening  nuts  begin  to  fall, 

The  leaves  to  lose  their  sheen, 
Each  towering  monarch  of  the  woods 

Puts  on  a  duller  green. 
Anon  the  stiffening  breezes  bring 

Their  warning  o'er  the  wold, 
Jack  Frost  is  riding  down  the  wind 

With  Winter's  chariot  cold. 
156 


THE    FAIREST    SCENE. 

E  night  I  sat  and  mused  alone, 
Enraptured,  in  a  trance  serene; 
1  thought  of  all  the  sorrows  tlown, 

And  all  the  pleasures  1  had  seen. 
Fair  visions  passed  before  my  view, — 
The  ghosts  of  revels  1  had  kept — 
Till,  wearied  of  the  long  review, 
My  eyes  grew  heavy  and  1  slept. 

And  then  methought  an  angel  came 

And  stood  beside  me  in  the  gloom ; 
About  her  forehead  played  a  flame 

That  sent  a  halo  through  the  room. 
She  cast  a  kindly  glance  at  me, 

Then  touched  my  hand  and  whispered  low: 
'Come,  go  with  me  and  you  shall  see 

The  fairest  scene  that  earth  can  show." 

1  followed  her  across  the  green, 

And  onward  through  a  lonely  wood, 
To  where,  amid  the  peaceful  scene, 

A  shade -embowered  cottage  stood, 
Nestled  among  the  swaying  trees. 

She  drew  the  blinds  and  sweetly  smiled: 
Within,  a  mother  on  her  knees 

Was  praying  for  her  sleeping  child. 

157 


PILGRIM'S    PRAYER. 

lend  us  light 

And  teach  us  right, 
And  lead  us  safely  through  the  night 

Of  life's  dark  way, 

Lest  we  should  stray 
From  home  and  hope  of  Heaven  away. 

Teach  us  to  see 

Our  liberty 
As  blessings  coming  all  from  Thee, 

And  grant  us  skill 

With  strength  and  will, 
To  climb  to  nobler  conquests  still. 

Thy  grief  forbear 

If  tempting  snare 
Has  e'er  misled  us  anywhere; 

Nor  grant  Thy  wrath 

This  aftermath 
If  we  have  tarried  by  the  path. 


158 


Inspire  us  yet 

Lest  we  forget 
The  landmarks  where  our  journey's  set; 

And  on  and  on, 

By  duty  drawn, 
Conduct  us  towards  a  fairer  dawn. 

So  hold  us  fast, 

Until  at  last 
The  final  milestone  has  been  passed: 

Then,  safe  and  blest,— 

Our  faults  confessed,— 
Within  Thy  Kingdom  give  us — rest. 


159 


IN     LATE    OCTOBER. 

LJOW    grand,    beyond    comparison,    these    late 

October  days, 
Wrapped    in    the    mellow    drapery   of    the    Indian 

Summer's  haze? 
'Tis    pleasure's    purest   essence    now    upon    some 

crowning  hill 
To  stand  and  drink  the  beauties  of  the  landscape, 

broad  and  still ; 
Or,  drifting  in  the  valley  with   the  softly  purling 

stream, 
To   flood    the    wells    of    fancy    with    the    sweet, 

transcendent  dream 
That    permeates    the    atmosphere    and,    in    the 

forest,  weaves 
Its  themes  amid  the  tangle  of  the  variegated  leaves. 


1 60 


The  charms  of  budding  spring-time  and  of  sum 
mer's  growing  field 

Are  shallow  when  compared  with  those  these 
halcyon  hours  yield; 

The  undertone  of  insect  life  that  murmurs,  half 
subdued, 

Beguiles  the  wordly  soul  into  an  introspective 
mood, 

And  teaches,  by  comparison,  the  better  part  of  life — 

The  peace  of  resignation  coming  after  toil  and  strife, 

Whence  man's  ambitious  spirit  learns  its  longings 
to  appease, 

That  earth's  divinest  music  oft  is  pitched  in 
minor  keys. 


161 


A    PICTURE. 

'HTIS  dusk  on  the  river;  the  dews,  softly  falling, 
Are   decking  the  tree -tops  with  sparkles  of 

light. 

From  out  the    low  willows  the   throstle    is  calling 
And  plaintively  singing  her  song  to  the  night. 
Among  the  tall  maples  the  whippoorwill's  chiding 

Vociferous  frogs  that  are  croaking  below, 
While  slyly  the  night-hawk  comes  forth  from  her 

hiding 
And  startles  the  bats  as  they  flit  to  and  fro. 

Far  over  the  river  the  moonlight  is  gleaming, 
Reflecting  the  forms  of  the  shadowy  grove, 

With  all  the  bright  stars,  so  benignantly  beaming 
From  out  their  blue  depths  in  the  heavens  above ; 

While  down  by  the  water  a  poet  sits  dreaming, 
And  weaves  a  fair  song  for  the  maid  of  his  love. 


162 


A    PLAINT    OF    THE    ANCIENT    GREEK. 

,  for  some  Hyperborean  strand! 

Some  favored  ^Ethiopian  shore; 
Where,  by  soft  Halcyon  breezes  fanned, 

The  soul  might  rest  forevermore! 
Where  Pan,  the  shepherd,  herds  his  flock 

And  sweetly  play  the  >Eolian  lutes, 
And  Venus,  sitting  on  the  rocks, 

Lends  Love's  sweet  charm  to  all  pursuits. 

Where  soft  Apollo  blows  his  horn, 

The  Muses  charm  each  soul  to   rest, 

From  when  Aurora  wakes  the  morn, 
Till  Vesper  settles'  in  the  West; 

Where  Jupiter  his  lightnings  saves, 
And  Hera  reigns  in  full  control; 

While  gay,  on  Neptune's  charmed  waves, 
The  sea- nymphs  gambol  as  they  roll. 


163 


Where,  all  unknown  the  field  of  Mars — 

Save  when  Diana  roams  the  gorge, 
And  all  the  household  gods  of  Lars 

Do  light  their  fires  at  Vulcan's  forge. 
Where  Bacchus  brews  his  foaming  bowl- 

The  Graces,  with  their  finer  arts, 
Subdue  the  Vampires  of  the  soul, 

And  Momus  rules  each  joyous  heart. 

There  would  I  sit  in  Herme's  halls, 

And  learn  Minerva's  golden  lore; 
Unheeding  Fate's  incessant  squalls 

That  vex  us  on  this  troubled  shore. 
O,  Emerald  Isle  beyond  the  seas! 

1,  weary  on  life's  dismal  strand, 
Am  waiting  for  the  gods'  decrees 

To  call  me  to  that  happy  land! 


164 


. . 


THE    POET    AND    HIS    SONG. 

\A7HEN  will  the  poet's  song  be  done?" 

As  well  ask  of  the  setting  sun 
When  it  behind  the  Western  hills 

Will  sink  to  rise  no  more. 
'But  will  not  time  exhaust  his  dream, 
And  leave  him  but  a  threadbare  theme 
Of  which  some  earlier  Homer's  quill 

Has  written  long  before?" 

Didst  ever  hear  the  robin  sing, 
Or  watch  the  throstle  on  the  wing, 
Or  mark  the  summer  storm-cloud  roll 

Athwart  the  welkin  blue? 
Didst  ever  walk  the  beach  along 
And  listen  to  the  ocean's  song 
But  that  its  echoes  thrilled  thy  soul 

With  something  strange  and  new? 


165 


Didst  ever  walk  the  city  street 

And  mark  each  face  you  chanced  to  meet, 

Look  on  each  cot  and  temple  door 

Along  the  thoroughfare? 
Hast  ever  trod  a  rural  way 
Where  you  have  wandered  many  a  day, 
Nor  marked  new  objects  which,  before, 

You  never  noted  there? 

So  is  it  with  the  poet's  lay: 

He  sees  beyond  the  dark  array 

Of  toil  and  troubles,  doubts  and  fears, 

That  vex  the  common  mind ; 
With  knowledge  gained  through  higher  art, 
He  finds  the  key  to  every  heart, 
And  strives  for  all  life's  bitter  tears 

Some  soothing  balm  to  find. 

Through  every  nook  of  Nature's  soul 

The  Muse  is  given  leave  to  stroll, 

And  pluck  each  fragrant  flower  of  thought 

That  blossoms  'mid  the  thorn; 
And  every  flow'ret,  fair  or  frail, 
She  weaves  into  a  tender  tale 
Whereby  some  new-born  truth  is  taught 

Life's  temple  to  adorn. 

1 66 


For  those  who  in  the  eager  quest 
Of  wealth,  find  never  time  to  rest, 
Save  now  and  then  a  casual  glance 

Upon  the  printed  page; 
The  poet's  many-tinted  leaves 
Are  gathered,  though  he  oft  receives 
But  little  praise,  till  he,  perchance, 

Hath  found  a  higher  stage. 

But,  long  as  Nature's  tireless  hand 
Brings  forth  her  lessons  new  and  grand, 
And  any  of  the  wordly  throng  . 

Find  pleasure  in  the  dream — 
While  earth  is  fair  and  women  pure, 
While  sun  and  moon  and  stars  endure, 
The  poet  still  will  sing  his  song 

And  never  lack  a  theme. 


167 


APPENDIX. 


NOTE  I. — The  region  along  the  shores  on  both  sides  of  the  Mis 
sissippi  between  the  points  of  the  confluence  of  the  Illinois  and  Missouri 
rivers  with  the  Father  of  Waters,  is  particularly  rich  in  legendary  stories 
concerning  the  life  and  habits  of  the  powerful  tribes  of  Indians  who 
were  the  original  owners  of  these  fertile  valley  lands.  Along  the  blutts 
on  the  Illinois  side  are  numberless  burial  places  where  the  bones  of 
thousands  of  "the  first  Americans"  repose,  while  the  valleys  and  prairie- 
stretches  for  some  distance  back  from  the  river  afford  constant  reminders 
of  their  presence  and  handiwork  in  the  dim  ages  of  the  past.  From  the 
time  of  the  earliest  frontier  expeditions,  this  locality  has  been  con 
spicuous  among  the  chronicles  for  the  number  and  peculiar  charm  of  the 
folk-lore  stories  handed  down  from  one  generation  to  another,  and  held 
in  almost  sacred  reverence  by  the  Indians.  And  among  these,  dating 
from  the  famous  expedition  of  Marquette,  none  is  more  striking  and 
interesting  than  that  of  the  Piasa  Bird.  That  this  was  more  than  a  mere 
myth  is  attested  by  the  evidence  of  many  early  settlers  who  got  the  story 
in  minute  detail  from  the  Indians  themselves,  and  by  the  painting  that 
remained  upon  the  face  of  the  perpendicular  blutts  within  the  present 
limits  of  the  city  of  Alton,  until  quarried  away  just  about  the  close  of  the 
first  half  of  the  present  century.  The  picture  that  forms  the  frontispiece 
of  this  book  is  from  a  painting  from  the  original  made  by  Mr.  John  B. 
Blair,  an  artist  of  genius  and  renown,  who  died  in  Chicago,  in  December, 
1895.  It  is  now  owned  by  Prof.  E.  Marsh,  of  this  city.  The  story  is  fully 
told  in  the  poem. 

NOTE  II.— Next  to  that  of  the  Piasa  Bird,  the  legend  of  Lover's 
Leap  is  perhaps  the  most  noted  and  interesting  of  any  that  cluster  around 
the  vicinity  of  Alton,  III.,  but  this  is  the  first  time  that  it  has  ever 
appeared  in  written  form.  The  point  described  is  located  at  the  southern- 

168 


most  extremity  of  Prospect  street,  in  the  city  of  Alton,  where  it  ends  in  a 
sheer  bluff  rising  two  hundred  feet  from  the  bank  of  the  river.  It  is  one 
of  the  few  landmarks  of  special  interest  in  this  vicinity  that  have  escaped 
the  defacing  hand  of  civilization,  and  commands  one  of  the  most  mag 
nificent  views  to  be  found  anywhere  in  the  Mississippi  valley. 

NOTE  III. — The  history  of  heroism  in  all  ages  and  among  all 
nations  of  the  globe  furnishes  few  instances  of  such  magnanimous  self- 
sacrifice  as  that  of  this  savage  of  the  American  forests,  and  the  story  of 
his  deed  does  not  coincide  very  well  with  the  oft-repeated  and  much- 
credited  statement  that  the  Indian  possesses  no  sense  of  honor,  and  is 
incapable  of  any  of  the  finer  traits  of  character  commonly  attributed  to 
the  people  of  every  other  race  and  nation.  There  has  been  some  dispute 
as  to  his  age,  and  at  least  one  commentator  claims  that  he  was  very 
young,  instead  of  a  man  well  advanced  in  years,  when  he  made  himself 
immortal;  but  the  writer,  having  examined  all  evidence  obtainable,  is 
satisfied  that  he  has  given  a  true  and  exact  rendition  of  the  legend. 

NOTE  IV. — The  topographical  peculiarity  that  forms  the  foundation 
for  this  poem  is  indeed  most  remarkable,  and  the  legend  connected  there 
with  is  about  the  most  positive  of  any  of  the  relative  themes  treated  in 
this  book.  There  can  be  no  question  that  the  story  is  true,  and  the  old 
French  village  of  Portage  des  Sioux,  located  on  the  west  bank  of  the 
Mississippi,  in  St.  Charles  county,  Mo.,  bears  to-day  many  unmistakable 
evidences  of  early  inhabitance  by  the  Indians.  A  series  of  mounds 
within  its  confines  have  yielded  to  the  delver's  spade  some  of  the  richest 
specimens  of  aboriginal  pottery  and  implements  of  war  ever  unearthed 
in  this  country. 

NOTE  V.— One  of  the  most  beautiful  effects  which  the  diversity 
of  nature  along  the  limestone  bluffs,  facing  the  river  in  Jersey  county, 
Illinois,  affords,  is  presented  in  the  valley  four  miles  below  the  mouth 
of  the  Illinois  river  where  the  Piasa  Bluffs  Assembly  holds  its  annual 
summer  meetings.  This  corporation  was  formed  about  twelve  years  ago 
for  the  purpose  of  religious  worship  and  general  culture  away  from  city- 
life  during -the  pleasant  summer  months,  by  a  company  of  fervent  workers 
in  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church.  The  natural  adaptability  of  the 
locality  to  the  purpose  lias  made  it  an  unqualified  success  from  the  first, 
and  the  improvements  made  have  robbed  it  of  none  of  its  original  charm. 

169 


The  spring,  which  is  its  greatest  glory,  possesses  some  fine  medicinal 
properties,  and  this  fact,  together  with  the  surroundings,  naturally  sug 
gests  the  legend. 

NOTE  VI.— A  legend  of  the  Miami  tribes  of  the  Indiana  plains, 
and  true  according  to  the  best  evidence  bearing  upon  the  subject  that 
the  author  has  been  able  to  obtain. 

NOTE  VII. — This  story  is  oft  told  and  passes  current  for  historical 
fact  among  the  old  scouts,  trappers  and  hunters  of  the  Wisconsin  and 
Michigan  woods,  who  got  it  direct  from  the  Chippewa  Indians,  to  which 
tribe  it  is  credited. 

NOTE  VIII.— This  poem  was  occasioned  by  one  of  the  saddest 
episodes  ever  recorded  in  the  biographical  history  of  Illinois.  On 
Thursday,  April  nth,  1895,  Prof.  Win.  McAdams,  accompanied  only  by  his 
pointer  dog,  Cleopatra,  set  sail  from  Alton  up  the  Mississippi  for  the 
inlet  to  Prairie  Lake,  on  the  Missouri  shore,  fifteen  miles  above,  where 
a  number  of  friends  constituting  the  Pottawatomie  Club,  was  encamped, 
enjoying  a  week's  snipe  shoot.  His  failure  to  arrive  on  Thursday  night 
occasioned  no  alarm,  as  it  was  supposed  that  he  had  stopped  at  Portage 
des  Sioux  to  delve  in  the  Indian  mounds  there.  But  when,  on  Friday,  his 
empty  boat  was  found  at  Clifton,  four  miles  above  Alton,  adrift,  his 
friends  apprehended  the  worst,  and  at  once  started  a  determined  search 
which  was  headed  by  the  Professor's  sons,  Clark  and  John,  and  was 
continued  until  Sunday  afternoon,  when  the  dog  was  found  on  a  barren 
sandbar  at  the  foot  of  Eagle's  Nest  Island,  guarding  a  little  bundle  of 
personal  effects.  There  was  the  mark  of  a  boat's  prow  on  the  sand,  and 
the  Professor's  tracks  where  he  had  stepped  ashore,  deposited  his 
bundle,  and  returned  to  the  water.  That  was  all,  but  it  was  at  once 
inferred  that  he  had  intended  to  spend  the  night  on  the  island;  that 
in  stepping  fiom  the  boat  he  had  so  lightened  it  as  to  cause  it  to  float 
out  from  shore,  that  he  had  followed  incautiously,  and  gone  over  a  reef. 
This  supposition  was  continued  on  the  following  day,  when  his  body, 
full  clothed,  was  found  with  grappling  lines  in  twelve  feet  of  water  a  few 
yards  out.  His  watch  had  stopped  at  9:13  p.  in.,  and  so  it  was  deducted 
that  he  went  down  to  his  fate  at  just  9  o'clock,  on  the  night  of  April  n. 
The  fact  that  he  had  spent  his  life  largely  in  archaeological  and  geologi 
cal  research  along  the  Mississippi,  and  that  he  lost  his  life  while  upon  a 


170 


pleasure  trip  to  join  the  Pottawatomie  Club,  of  which  he  was  President, 
led  to  the  writing  of  this  poem  and  its  dedication  to  him  by  the  club. 
Prof.  McAdams  was  one  of  the  most  eminent  scientists  who  have 
honored  his  profession  in  this  country.  He  had  charge  of  the  Missouri 
geological  display  at  the  New  Orleans  World's  Fair,  and  of  the  Illinois 
display  at  the  Columbian  Exposition,  was  Fellow  of  the  Missouri  and 
and  National  Academies  of  Science,  and  President  of  the  Illinois 
Society  of  Natural  History,  and  contributed  more  than  any  other  man 
to  the  literature,  of  the  sciences  of  geology,  archaeology  and  anthro 
pology,  as  pertaining  to  the  Mississippi  Valley.  His  remains  repose  in 
the  family  cemetery,  at  the  old  homestead,  near  Otterville,  in  Jersey 
County,  111. 

NOTE  IX. — The  landmark  herein  described  is  located  on  a  promi 
nent  point  of  the  Illinois  bluffs,  not  many  miles  below  Hamburg  Bay, 
and  is  an  object  of  wonderment  of  curious  inquiry  to  all  travelers  up  and 
down  the  Upper  Mississippi. 

NOTE  X. — The  biographers  of  President  Lincoln  and  General 
Shields  have  generally  omitted  to  mention  the  fact  of  this  sanguinary 
encounter  between  these  two  eminent  Illinoisans,  in  the  days  of  their 
youthful  ardor,  but  the  episode  is  nevertheless  historically  correct  as 
here  narrated,  and  there  are  some  men  yet  living  in  the  State  who  have 
a  personal  recollection  of  the  incident.  The  Island  in  the  Mississippi 
river,  near  Alton,  111.,  where  the  duelists  met,  is  still  pointed  out  to 
inquiring  strangers. 

NOTE  XI.— Written  on  the  occasion  of  the  first  opening  of  the 
World's  Columbian  Exposition,  at  Chicago,  in  celebration  of  the  400111 
anniversary  of  the  sailing  of  Columbus,  upon  the  voyage  which  resulted 
in  the  discovery  of  America. 

NOTE  XII.— This  poem  is  a  translation  from  the  German  of  Mrs. 
Marie  Raible,  of  this  city.  It  is  given  as  an  example  of  many  poems  that 
the  author  has  had  the  privilege  of  translating  for  Mrs.  Raible,  whose 
friendship  he  is  proud  to  possess,  and  who  is  recognized  as  the  second 
greatest  writer  of  German  poetry  now  living  in  America.  The  two  suc 
ceeding  poems  are  taken  from  among  many  translations  from  various 
German  authors. 


NOTE  XIII.— There  is  an  old  legend  among  the  Germans  of  a 
fair  island  city  situated  somewhere  near  the  mouth  of  the  Rhine,  which, 
one  night,  during  a  severe  storm,  disappeared  beneath  the  waves.  Now 
a  magic  light  illumes  the  waters  where  the  island  went  down,  and 
often  as  the  sun  sinks  beneath  the  western  hills  the  mermaids  in  those 
submarine  halls  toll  the  bells  in  the  old  church  towers  of  the  submerged 
city;  and  he  who  once  sees  this  light  and  hears  the  solemn  dirge  of  the 
bells  is  irresistibly  drawn  towards  the  spot,  until  the  waves  sweep  over 
him  and  he  sinks  to  the  bottom. 

GENERAL  NOTE.— The  writer  deems  it  his  duty,  as  well  as  a 
pleasant  privilege,  to  state,  in  conclusion  of  these  comments,  that  while 
some  of  the  poems  herein  published  are  printed  for  the  first  time,  and 
many  have  been  re-written  and  improved,  he  owes  his  introducton  to 
the  general  public  to  the  occasional  appearance  of  much  of  his  work 
in  the  Alton  "Telegraph,"  "Sentinel-Democrat"  and  "Daily  Republican," 
and  to  such  magazines  as  "Home  and  Country,"  "Blue  and  Gray," 
"Outing,"  "The  American  Angler,"  "The  Waterways  Journal,"  "The 
National  Journalist"  and  "The  American  Journal  of  Education." 


172 


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